

Class 1 

Book 

Gopightl^“. 


CDRfRIGHT DEPOSIT. 











































h 


k r 


» 




I 



*■ •Av»v 








J » 


“Merle, Merle 


MERLE MAXWELL 


A NOVEL 


—BY— 

LOLA C. TALKINGTON 



1918 

O. M. GODDARD 
McKinney, tex. 



©CI,A492486 



PREFACE. 


I desire here to express my gratitude to those who 
by kind words encouraged me in the writing of this sto- 
ry. Especially am I indebted to my mother for helpful, 
encouraging words. 

The inspiration of the writing of this story came to 
me years previous to its beginning. So without harbor- 
ing malice or ill will towards humanity but with a burn- 
ing desire to give to the world a message that I trust is 
elevating and wholesome, I attempt this writing. Should 
this story lift its readers to a higher conception of life I 
shall be glad. And with a prayer that this effort may 
be approved of Him who reigns Supreme this message is 
sent forth. 


L. C. T. 


I 


Merle Maxwell 


•"We hear the sound of the summer breeze 
And fancy it is sighing, 

And feel its touch as it whispers low 
Of the scented flowers dying.” 


Chapter I. 



%T was the morning of a beautiful 
y 

^ October day. The sun was shining 
brightly on a clear, blue sky. Moth- 
er earth was beginning to put on her autum- 
nal robe of brown. Here and there were 
scattered fallen leaves of the tall, magno- 
lia trees, while the last blossoms of the sweet 
cape jasamines were slowly but surely dying 


Everyone in the little village of Popular- 
ville seemed astir. Children, with their books 
and lunch baskets, were seen from every di- 
rection, wending their way to the old school 
house on the hill. Light-hearted men were 
hurrying to their daily work. While the wo- 
men were busily engaged in washing dishes, 
making beds, sweeping and dusting, putting 
the house to order, and preparing the noon- 
day meal for their families. 

Popularville boasted of about five hun- 
dred inhabitants. A bank, probably about a 
half dozen stores and a postoffice, where the 
boys and men usually went each day at mail 
time, and would usually linger long discussing 
the events of the day. The little village 
was made up mostly of farmers who had 
made a wild rush for the place at first sight 
of the railroad, perhaps a dozen and one- 
half years before the time of this story 


2 


in hopes of gaining timely wealth and popu- 
larity. 

Just outside the outskirts of the little vil- 
lage could be heard the sound of hammers, 
as the workmen were driving the last nails in 
the repairing of the old Maxwell mansion. 
The old home was a beautiful sight this bright 
October morning, with the tall magnolias and 
cottonwoods scattering their brown leaves on 
the ground underneath them, on one side of 
the long gravel walk leading from the stately 
old mansion down to the old gate, that had 
swung on its hinges more than a century. 
While on the other side, little paths lead 
down through the cape jasamines; and roses, 
which with the fair lilies were bending their 
heads in meek submission to the coming win- 
ter. Even the honeysuckle r that had made 
such a fair race at covering the old pailing 
fence, had drooped in an attitude of content- 
ment. And too, there was the old fashioned 


3 


well, covered with trailing vines, and almost 
forgotten in the later and more modern ways 
of water supplies. Now, just a few more deli- 
cate touches of the brush on the inside, and 
the remodeling of the old home is completed. 

Within the walls of this old farm home all 
was astir. Servants were hurrying from room 
to room putting each room in order. Here 
and there were old, worn pieces of furniture, 
to be replaced by new. Mrs. Maxwell, a sweet 
faced wife and mother, and mistress of the 
home, was going about quietly giving orders. 
While Uncle Tim Maxwell was out in the 
yard giving directions for the usual day’s 
work on the farm, and wondering why “wim- 
min folks” had to have everything turned top- 
sy-turvy from once to twice a year and made 
over. 

Uncle Tim was little more than a middle- 
aged man, with black hair touched here and 
there with silver locks, probably caused by 


4 


hard work and careful management from 
early boyhood. His deep blue eyes that be- 
spoke perseverance and determination; his 
clean-shaven face, and not too tall but strong- 
ly built form, proved him to have been a very 
handsome man in his younger days. His 
broad shoulders had begun to slightly droop, 
but even now as in his youthful days, were 
thrown back in a moment of excitement, as if 
to prepare himself to bravely meet the foe. 

Timothy Maxwell had been reared in a 
home as an only child, without brother or sis- 
ter. His father and mother were good old- 
fashioned people content with the real ne- 
cessities of life, that their day and time called 
for. And he could never understand why it 
took so much to “go on” these days. Pride 
and fashion were ruining the world to- 
day. He didn’t know anything about “gals, 
nohow.” And yet he would willingly give the 
last cent that he possessed for the comforts 


5 


and pleasures of his family. And right here I 
want the reader to understand, that it was 
from hard work and long sleepless nights 
spent in deep thought that Timothy Maxwell 
had obtained his large farm, a comfortable 
home and moderate means. He had never 
been too good to work at anything that would 
bring himself and his family an honest dollar. 
Uncle Tim was a friend to everyone, although 
he had some peculiar ways, he was loved by 
all. 

On this beautiful October morning Merle 
Maxwell sat in her room meditating for a few 
brief moments, then arose and dressed with 
unusual care for a day’s shopping in the vil- 
lage. She was not what the world terms a 
beautiful girl, and yet, something in the large, 
dark, brown eyes, and the sweet expression on 
her face, would force one to think of her as 
the loveliest, most wonderful girl in the world. 
She looked in perfect harmony with the bea- 


6 


tiful morning. Her very dark brown mass of 
waving hair was done low on her smooth 
white neck, with here and there a stray curl 
that refused to be pinned back. Her dark, 
heavy eyebrows, slightly arched, and the 
long, drooping eyelashes, made her already 
beautiful eyes appear more wonderful. 

She looked unusually girlish in her tailor- 
ed suit of blue. 

The only ornaments she wore on this day 
were a la valliere set with pure rubies, and a 
ring set with a very odd stone, which she wore 
on her right hand. 

Merle Maxwell was very careful in her 
manner of dress. Her toilet being complete, 
she took a last peep in the mirror, as most 
girls do, pulled her wide brimmed felt hat a 
little lower over her eyes; walked out into the 
spacious hall and out at the door. On the 
doorsteps, she turned back and called cheerily 
to some of the servants. Merle was loved by 


7 


the servants, as by everyone else who chanc- 
ed to know her. The sweet expression on her 
face, and her kind disposition, made it impos- 
sible for one to know and not love her. 

She bounded down the long gravel walk, 
stopping here and there to pluck a cape jasa- 
mine, or bending her slender, girlish form to 
view some tiny flower, which was almost cov- 
ered by the fallen leaves of Autumn. On she 
went, until she was startled by the click of the 
old swinging gate. As she raised her bright, 
smiling face, and quickly turned in the direc- 
tion from which the sound came, she came 
face to face with two gentlemen. She smiled, 
bowed and passed out of the gate, and down 
the village road. 

Let us go back for a few brief minutes to 
the two gentlemen. Mr. Latney, an artist 
in his profession, had been engaged to 
give the last delicate touches to the wood- 
work of the interior of the old mansion. 


8 


He was just a little stout for his medium 
height; but the kind expression on his face, 
and his gentle ways, bespoke a true gentle- 
man. The baldness on the top of his head, 
in this case at least, was not a sign of ap- 
proaching mature years, for he was yet a 
young man. 

As for the other gentlemen, we must go 
back a few days prior to this eventful morn- 
ing, when we see a tall, boyish, young man, 
with black hair and large blue eyes. It has 
been said that eyes are windows of the soul, 
and it must be true, in this case at least, for 
in our hero’s eyes could be read honesty, 
truthfulness, intelligence, and in fact every- 
thing that it takes to make a true, noble 
character, for his was a pure, manly life. One 
distinguished feature of his character was 
that in talking to people he always looked 
them straight in the face, displaying a frank, 
open countenance. 


9 


Derris Leroy, for several months, had been 
collecting for a certain company in Shreve- 
port, Louisiana, but something, intuition per- 
haps, had impressed upon his mind, of late, to 
give up his work for a few days. He knew not 
why — he had a good position. For days he 
tried to overcome the feeling, but some un- 
known power was impelling him to go to May- 
field, to his mother and sister. 

After debating the question with himself 
and spending several sleepless nights, he 
boarded the train for that place. Upon arriv- 
ing he found his mother and sister in their us- 
ual healtlvwhich made matters more mysti- 
rious than ever. He had thought that one of 
them might be ill, or that something might 
have befallen them, thus causing the disturb- 
ance of his thoughts and mind. 

A few days later, he was sitting in his 
room, when the postman came with a letter 
directed to him. Upon opening the sealed en- 
velope he read as follows: 


10 


“My dear Derris: I am now at Popu- 
larville, a little' country village, giving 
the finishing touches to the woodwork 
of the interior of a fine old mansion in 
the outskirts of the village. Truly, the 
little place has the right name. I am 
afraid if I remain here long I shall fall 
in love with the little country town. 
It is such a change from the city life 
that we are used to. Everything in the 
vicinity seems so romantic. 

“Since I have been here, I am contin- 
ually finding myself in deep reverie of 
our childhood days. Won’t you come 
and spend a few days with me? I 
know you would enjoy a few days of 
quiet, besides our different careers in 
life have long separated us from each 
other, and nothing could give me more 
pleasure than to enjoy your presence 
for a few days at least, and again live 


11 


our boyhood days in this quiet place. 
Don’t disappoint me, and believe me 
to be your affectionate friend. 

E. L. Latney,” 

He sat for a moment in deep thought. 
Then he drew himself up to the writing desk 
and wrote an acceptance, hardly realizing 
why he accepted an invitation of pleasure 
just at this time, when his work needed him. 
He was not a boy to take many pleasures- 
Work had always been first, then pleasure. 

However, according to his promise, on the 
following Tuesday he bid adieu to his mother 
and sister, and almost wondering at his own 
maneuvers, departed for Popularvile, arriving 
late the same evening. He was met by his 
friend and escorted to the only hotel that the 
little village afforded. The following morning 
the two men arose, dressed and went down to 
breakfast. In spite of the meager accommo- 
dations an appetizing breakfast awaited them 


12 


Breakfast being finished, the two returned 
to their room where they discussed their 
plans for the day. As they entered the room 
and closed the door, Mr. Latney turned to his 
young friend: 

“Derris, will you accompany me to my 
work this morning, or do you prefer remaining 
here until I return this afternoon?” 

Mr. Leroy expressed a desire to accompa- 
ny his friend. 

“I, myself, think you should enjoy the day 
looking over the wonderful old mansion and 
its beautiful grounds and surroundings,” re- 
sponded Mr. Latney. 

So, accordingly, they set out for their 
morning walk, which was not more than a 
mile. They passed down the little village 
road so engrossed in conversation, with an oc- 
casional pause to admire a tall magnolia, or 
some fading flower, that they were scarcely 
aware of the fact that they had reached their 


13 


destination until they had turned in at the 
old-fashioned gate and stood face to face with 
Merle Maxwell. Both wished her a pleasant 
good morning, and went on briskly up the 
long gravel walk. 

They entered the house where Mr. Latney 
at once set about his work, leaving Derris to 
amuse himself by looking over the fine old 
mansion, or strolling out among the beautiful 
trees and flowers. All day, try as he might, 
Derris could not help thinking of the girl he 
had met that morning down the walk. The 
sweet, cheerful expression on her face; the 
bright look in her large, round eyes, and the 
slender, girlish form, was indelibly impressed 
upon his mind forever. 

While he was thus musing. Merle had 
reached the village, stopping here and there on 
her way to speak a kind, cheerful word to 
some school girl or boy. For she, herself, was 
just free from school cares, having graduated 


14 


with the highest honors from , Va., the 

previous year. 

She went from place to place carefully, 
but cheerfully, selecting the desired articles. 
To some people shopping is an irksome task, 
while Merle made it a pleasure. She always 
found pleasure and happiness in most every- 
thing. Seldom anything came her way that 
she could not find a bright side somewhere. 
Her friends were numbered by her acquain- 
tances. There was scarcely a child in the en- 
tire community that did not know and love 
her. Even in school she was loved and ad- 
mired by her school mates. In fact, I think it 
would have been impossible to have found 
one half dozen enemies in her host of ac- 
quaintances and these were enemies through 
jealousy and envey of her talents and cul- 
ture. But we shall speak of these characters 
in another chapter. 

Her shopping finished, she returned home 


15 


to find the workmen gone; all was peacefully 
quiet. She bounded up the steps, down the 
long spacious hall, and out on the back porch 
where she came into collision with old Aunt 
Texanna. 

■‘Lor,’ honey, yo’ old auntie didn’t see yo’ 
comin.” 

“That is all right, Texanna, I am as much 
to blame as you.” 

And to quiet the old darkey’s fears Merle 
placed a big, red apple in her hand and went 
on her way. The whites of the old negro’s 
eyes were clearly visible as she looked down 
at the apple in her hand. 

“Dat chile am an angel.” 

Texanna had been a servant in the Max- 
well family for years, even before Merle was 
born. She was yet a mere child to the old ne- 
gro, and was loved by her as dearly as the 
good old soul was capable of loving. The old 
darkey could hardly believe that Merle had 


16 


passed her childhood days and was now a 
young lady of twenty summers. 

The next morning the sun was streaming 
through the long, narrow window into Mr. 
Latney and Leroy’s room. But above, here 
and there, dark clouds could be seen floating 
about and the air seemed a trifle warm for an 
October morning. 

Mr. Latney turned to his young friend: 

“Leroy, the weather looks threatening, and 
if it were not that I might lose your friend- 
ship, 1 would ask you to help me these next 
few days.” 

Leroy, just finishing his toilet, turned to 
address his friend. 

“I was half wishing that you would ask me 
to assist you. We have not had the pleasure 
of working together since we were mere 
boys.” 

Mr. Latney drew down a pair of trousers 
that were hanging on the wall. 


17 


“Well, it is fortunate that I brought along 
these extra overalls.” 

Leroy had not thought of the nice broad- 
cloth suit he was wearing. 

“Since you are so kind as to furnish the 
working trousers, have you an extra hat?” 

Mr. Latney picked up an old white hat, 
that had evidently seen better days, and 
stuffed it into the suit case with his own 
clothes. 

As they walked out into the street, each 
seemingly lost in thought, Leroy was wonder- 
ing why he was here spending valuable time. 
And why he had consented to accept this 
work when he had just left a much more 
profitable position — these he could not ex- 
plain. But the thoughts that crowded all 
others out were: the opportunity of going 
again to the place where he had met the girl 
who was so forcibly impressed upon his mind; 
and, also, a faint hope that he might catch a 


18 


glimpse of her bright, smiling face. 

The floating clouds had gathered and by 
noon the rain was pouring, yet, that did not 
interfere with the young men’s work, for it 
was on the interior of the house. 

Merle bounded into the house; her mass 
of dark hair hanging loose over her shoulders, 
and as wet as water could possibly make it. 
Aunt Texanna looked up from the pan of 
dishes that she was washing. 

“Chile, what yo’ been up to now.^’ 

“Just taking a good, old-fashioned head- 
wash, Auntie. Isn’t this a glorious rain,’’ ex- 
claimed Merle, always turning everything 
into pleasure. 

Just at this moment Mrs. Maxwell entered 
the room. 

“Why, Merle, what have you been doing? 
Washing your hair on a cool day like this!” for 
the rain had made it a bit chilly. 

“On, mother, I just couldn’t resist the 


19 


temptation of giving my head one more good 
shower bath. This, no doubt, will be the last 
until next summer.” 

“Merle,” remarked her mother, “you had 
best go to your room and change your wet 
dress to save a cold.” 

“All right, mother.” . ; ^ ^ 

And as she went up to her room, she un- 
expectedly met Leroy in the hall. She drop- 
ped her head but looked up shyly as she pass- 
ed him. Leroy thought he had never seen a 
more beautiful sight than this girlish form, 
with such a wealth of hair. The damp, rainy 
weather had caused little ringlets and curls to 
fall over her white forehead — a beautiful pic- 
ture indeed. 

As she entered her dressing room the 
roses on her cheeks deepened into crimson 
red. For several minutes she stood in silent 
thought. Could she ever forget the kind, 
thoughtful look in those earnest, blue eyes. 


20 


Why did this tall, manly form and noble 
countenance impress her thus differently 
from all other boys? Underneath the old 
white sombrero, Merle Maxwell could detect 
a true worthy gentleman. 


21 


Chapter IL 


Deceit is the serpent’s way 

And holds the innocent ones at bay^ 

He crawls beneath the foilage deep 
And bites the innocent as he creeps, 

With beastly power and unjust way 
He [glories to make the meek his prey, 

had always been care free, 
^ ^ taking life just as it came. Now, 

dear reader, do not think for a mo- 
ment that she was a frivolous and careless 
girl — she was far from that. In her school 
days on the little hill, she had studied hard to 
make good her grades. Then it was with 
deep, earnest effort that she graduated with 
highest honors from college, both in literary 
work and music. She had loved her school 
mates, both girls and boys, with tender school- 
mate love. As yet, she had never burdened 


22 


her heart with a real lover, though she had 
had several admirers. She was kind and 
friendly toward all. She had never conscious- 
ly harmed any one by word or deed. In early 
childhood she had given her heart to God and 
united with the church of the little village. 
She tried to live true to the vows she had 
made to God and His church. To watch her 
daily life was enough to inspire one to a no- 
bler, truer life. She was ever ready to stop 
and give a cheerful, encouraging word to one 
in despondency and gloom. 

Bright and happy she looked on this cool 
Sabbath morning as she entered the door of 
the little church. She preferred walking to 
driving on a morning like this and the brisk 
walk, together with the wind blowing from the 
north, had brought the rose to her cheeks. 
Some half dozen little Sunday school boys 
and girls met her at the door, clinging to her 
as she went up the aisle, for she was teacher 


23 


of the little juniors. One little lad threw his 
arm around her and looked up into her sweet 
face. 

‘‘Miss Merle, I think you’re pretty.” 

In trying to speak a loving word to each 
little heart she failed to answer the child. 

“Miss Merle, you know why I think you’re 
pretty?” 

‘‘No, Renel, I don’t see why anyone should 
think me good-looking.” 

Little Renel looked up in surprise at this. 

“Why, it’s because I love you.” 

With tenderness she pressed the lad to 
her heart. Oh, that she could have always 
had the confidence in humanity that she now 
had! Her life had been gentle and pure. She 
never entertained a thought that all in the 
world were not honest and truthful. In fact, 
she trusted others implicitly, as she hoped 
they trusted her. 

As the people of the little village throng- 


24 


ed into church that Sabbath morning, for they 
would attend church, whether to show their 
finery in dress, or for the lack of some other 
place to go on the Sabbath morning; or the 
true Christian spirit of attending church to 
worship, we cannot say, but go to church they 
did. There were, no doubt, some under each 
class. “Miss Merle,” as she was lovingly call- 
ed by many, knew that the noble character, 
so forcibly impressed upon her mind, was not 
there. But it had not occurred to her that 
while all Popularville were at church he was 
sitting in his quiet room thinking of her. 

On the following day Merle had gone out 
and mailed a wedding gift to a dear school- 
mate whose wedding day was fast approach- 
ing. As she turned from the postman and 
went up the steps of the dear old house she 
met Leroy coming out. Raising his hat, for 
every true gentleman is ever ready to take 
off his hat to pure womanhood, he bowed. 


25 


‘‘Miss Maxwell, ere long the work on your 
grand old house will be finished and Mr. Lat- 
ney and I will cease to trouble you with our 
coming and going.” 

“Your presence has not been in the least 
offensive, Mr. Leroy. It has been a pleasure 
to have both you and Mr. Latney in our home, 
and should you remain in our village longer 
we would be glad indeed to have you attend 
our Sunday school and meet many of the 
young people.” 

“I assure you that nothing could give me 
more pleasure. Miss Maxwell. And should I 
decide to remain here longer, I shall afford 
myself that pleasure.” 

As he went on his way to his room, he 
thought he would go anywhere at any time to 
look again at that face. He knew that he 
should go back to his former work but, at the 
same time, something was compelling him to 
remain. Could he afford to sacrifice a good 


26 


position and work with his friend Latney for 
the pleasure of being near and occasionally 
seeing this girl, who had so unexpectedly 
come into his life? Yes, it was worth the 
price. It meant everything to him. He would 
remain yet a few days. Then, perhaps, he 
could get the consent of his heart and mind 
to return to his old life. His thoughts had al- 
ways been absorbed in his work; striving to 
make a success in business life. True^ he had 
girl acquaintances and friends, but never be- 
fore had he realized that there was one girl in 
the world he could not be happy without. 

Merle, with the roses in her cheeks which 
had deepened almost to a flush, ran into the 
kitchen where Aunt Texanna was preparing 
dinner. 

“Auntie, you do look tired and fatigued 
this evening. Let me make the fruit pudding 
for dinner.” 

The old negro turned as she mopped the 


27 


perspiration from her kind old face, for in 
spite of the very cool fall day, the intense 
heat of the large range stove made the room 
most too warm to be comfortable. 

“Bless yo; honey, you go right out o’ here 
this minit’. Think yo’ old auntie going to have 
her darlin’s fair face blistered by the heat of a 
cook stove? Where on earth did my little 
baby learn anything about making puddin’s?” 

“Why Auntie, don’t you remember how 
you used to let me help you cook before I 
went away to school? Then is when I learned 
and I am going to help you now for you have 
had a hard day.” 

“Bless yo’ angel heart, chile. Some one 
does care for ole black mammy.” 

The old negro would have, willingly, given 
her life for the girl she loved, only as a true- 
hearted old servant can love. Merle was, oh, 
so happy. She knew not why. And in her 
happiness she wanted to make others happy. 


28 


and thus seized the opportunity of assisting 
the old servant in the preparing of a dinner. 
Always, when we are superlatively happy, 
we want others to be happy, too. The girl did 
not realize the great change that had come 
into her heart and life. She had always been 
cheerful and happy, but never before had the 
world seemed so dear to her. 

A few mornings later, Merle and her 
mother were out at the work house giving 
careful directions to the servants as to the 
washing of some dainty, hand-made article s 
when a servant came out and handed her a 
card, 

“Miss, Merle, a gentleman wishes to see 
you.” 

“All right, Madie, say that I will be in in a 
few minutes.” 

Merle looked down at her plain, linen 
house frock and, as she shook back the curls 


29 


that had fallen in clusters about her fair fore- 
head, she walked into the room. 

Leroy arose. 

“Miss Maxwell, I could not resist the temp- 
tation of strolling out to your home again this 
beautiful morning. We are not often blessed 
with such wonderful days during the winter 
months.” 

Merle motioned him to a chair, at the 
same time taking one herself. 

“I, too, was out basking in the warm sun- 
shine.” 

“I trust I did not discommode you by my 
unexpected call. Miss Maxwell.” 

“No, not in the least, Mr. Leroy, I was just 
on the eve of returning to the house to try 
some new music. Shall I sing;” 

And without waiting for a reply, she seat- 
ed herself at the piano and ran her slender 
fingers deftly over the keys as song after song 
she sung. To Leroy it seemed that she sang 


30 


from the depths of her pure heart. And not 
until he felt that it would be an imposition 
did he cease to urge her to continue singing. 
When she sang, she sang from her heart to 
God, and when she played, she played to God, 
No wonder her hearers were always so deeply 
impressed by her music. 

Time passed so quickly that when Leroy 
made his departure it was almost time for 
lunch. To Merle the few remaining days of 
that week passed slowly. She was so unmis- 
takably happy that she was on the alert, 
wanting to do something to help some one. 
Merle Maxwell had never been one to idle life 
away, and now, she longed to 'be busy at 
something. 

Another Sabbath morning dawned and 
with it came a cold wind from the north. Did 
Merle remain indoors? No, she ordered the 
pony carriage and at nine forty-five went 
again to Sunday school. The inclemency of 


31 


the weather seldom ever kept her away from 
her little Sunday school class. She realized 
that these tiny boys and girls were watching 
her life. And with all of her faults she was 
striving to lead them to higher, nobler lives. 
Yes, she had gone out and brought children 
who had never before attended Sunday 
school; whose parents had neglected to teach 
them the true conception of the Sabbath day 
No child or grown person was so poor or un- 
couth that she would not offer a kind word or 
deed. She would do anything, within the 
bounds of reason, to help one to higher ideals 
of life. 

She was doing her best to rightly instruct 
the mere handfull of boys and girls who had 
ventured out on a day like this, when the 
little church door softly opened causing her 
to look in that direction just as Derris Leroy 
entered and took his seat in the young men’s 
class. Yes, Leroy had gone out to Sunday 


32 


school, because the dearest girl in all the 
world — to him — had asked him to go. In 
childhood days he had been brought up in 
Sunday school and church. But after leaving 
home and mother he had grown careless and 
neglectful of church duties. His was a noble 
Christian character grown cold and indifferent 
to church duties through neglect alone. In- 
spired by the sincere fidelity of this mere girl, 
he would again attempt the life taught by his 

dear mother. 

/ 

After the dismissal of Sunday school, he 
waited on the church steps for the one girl in 
all the world to him. And it was with deter- 
mination in his heart to prove worthy of such 
a character that he handed Merle into her 
waiting carriage. 

The days passed on and yet Leroy re- 
mained with Mr. Latney, until one day he re- 
ceived a letter from his sister urging him to 
return home at once. At the same time re- 


33 


proving him for the work he was engaged in 
He knew that he must go and that he had al- 
ready put in too much time away from his 
work. But how could he go away without 
once more seeing the girl whom he knew he 
loved more than life itself? He might return 
again soon, then again, circumstances might 
not permit him to ever return. Oh, if he 
could only see her and pour out his heart’s 
love to her! Then he could go contented; but 
he dare not yet. He would risk to fate yet 
awhile. His sister’s letter was an urgent re- 
quest to come at once and go he must. 

1 he time was drawing near when the vil- 
lage stage coach should arrive and he knew 
that he would go. What was that? And as 
he turned at the sound of horse’s hoofs he be- 
held a carriage^ that he knew all too well, 
driving out of the village. Why hadn’t he 
seen her earlier and told her the necessity of 
his sudden departure? No, he would come 
again soon or write and explain. 


34 


The days went happily on with Merle 
The village club met in regular session one 
afternoon and she was there in her usual 
spirit of cheerfulness, jesting with everyone 
until she overheard her name spoken and 
naturally listening heard a conversation be- 
tween two of the ladies, who were standing a 
little apart from the main circle. 

Here, dear reader, we must introduce a 
very disagreeable character, Mrs. Felecia 
Langford. Truly, on Sunday she was a devout 
Christian, but her very sanctimonious and 
pious countenance betrayed a heart full of de- 
ceit. Her small, beadlike eyes bespoke haugh- 
tiness and false pride. It would have been 
almost impossible for one to have been as 
good as she, apparently, on Sunday. While 
during the week her greatest avocation was 
slandering and talking about other people. 
Continually keeping up disturbances and hard 
feelings between neighbors, or any who would 


35 


listen to her backbitings. Oh, the heartaches 
caused by a word spoken unkindly! 

While the other members of the club 
were spending a few minutes socially, Mrs. 
Langford had drawn one aside to interrogate 
concerning certain pyeople. As she looked up 
over her nose glasses to see that none were 
listening: 

“Who is that new comer that is paying so 
much attention to Merle Maxwell?” 

“Really, I don’t know,” returned the other 
lady, “but I believe his name is Leroy. He 
seems to be a gentleman.” 

The very idea of one speaking so kindly of 
another, especially a stranger, caused Mrs. 
Langford to elevate her eyebrows. 

“Well, he sure is a setten’ her. Do you 
know where he is from?” And lowering her 
voice, “you know he was at church with her 
yesterday, and I believe he put a whole dollar 
in the collection basket. Being a new comer, 
I guess he wanted to show off a little.” 


36 


Just then, the president calling the house 
to order, prevented her from saying more. 

The remainder of the afternoon, Merle’s 
thoughts were on the conversation she had 
just overheard. She had not intended to lis- 
ten, but upon hearing her name called, she, 
like any of us, was anxious to know the rest. 
She did not understand why anyone should 
speak slightly of Mr. Leroy. She had never 
been used to gossipers and did not know what 
it meant. In spite of what she had heard. 
Merle tried to be her usual cheerful self. And 
when she suggested an entertainment for 
raising some necessary funds, Felecia Lang- 
ford nudged the lady by her side: 

“She thinks Mr. Leroy will be here, no 
doubt.’’ 

Fortunately for Merle that she did not 
hear this remark. 

For days she worried over these remarks. 
Had this been the extent of her grievances 


37 


she would have had no cause for worrying. 
It might have been better, as she thought in 
later years, had she not been permitted to 
live to face the cruel realities that were sure 
to come. Oh, the pain and sorrow that can 
be inflicted by one deceitful life! Dear reader, 
don’t live a deceitful life; don’t appear to be a 
friend when you are not. Above all be frank 
and honest. “Oh, what a tangled web we 
weave, when first we practice to deceive.” 

As the days went on. Merle, though she 
could not help occassionally thinking of the 
unkind remarks she had heard concerning 
Mr. Leroy and herself, tried to persuade her- 
self that she, perhaps, had misunderstood. 
Anyway she would not judge Mrs. Langford 
for she had always seemed to be a friend. 
Even if she was positive that her ears had 
not deceived her, she was sure that the wo- 
man had meant no harm, and thus dismissed 
it from her mind as nearly as possible. 


38 


A few days later Leroy arrived in Popu* 
iarville. As he walked up the rickety side- 
walk on his way to the meagre hotel, he met 
some two or three ladies. One dropped a 
little behind the others and came to a halt. 

“Good morning, Mr. Leroy, how is your 
girl?” 

Leroy, startled by her thus addressing 
him: 

“Why I fail to understand. Whom do you 
mean?” 

And with a meaning glance over her spec- 
tacles: 

“I mean Merle Maxwell.” 

Leroy, now amused almost to the verge of 
laughing outright: 

“Oh, she is all right thank you.” 

“No doubt you think so. You had better 
be careful. She is awful sweet but she will 
deceive you in her own good time. Better 
take my advice.” 


39 


As she finished this in almost one breath, 
Felecia Langford hurried on to join the other 
ladies, leaving Derris almost paralyzed with 
surprise. 

What could she have meant? He had 
seen this same tall, stiff figure sitting in 
church with her hands folded and her head 
apparently immovable, looking as though she 
had never committed a wrong in her life. 
Well, he did not believe one word she had 
said — whoever she might be. As for her being 
sweet, he knew that Merle Maxwell was the 
sweetest girl on earth, and he also knew that 
she was not deceitful. As for being careful 
and taking this person’s unsought advice, he 
would seek advice from altogether a different 
character, should it be necessary to ask ad- 
vice concerning as pure and gentle woman- 
hood as Merle Maxwell. 

That very evening after Leroy had done 
justice to a dish of chicken salad with slices 


40 


of white bread and marshmallow sandwiches 
a la mode with a cup of tea, he walked out in 
the bright moonlight to the home of Merle 
Maxwell. Though it was a winter month the 
night was not unpleasant. 

On this eventful evening Merle wore a 
gown of red velvet, with a necklace of pure 
rubies as her only ornament. A beautiful 
picture she was as she walked down the long 
gravel path in the bright moon beams. 

She was leaning against the old picket 
fence, meditating, when Leroy came up. She 
was not startled at hearing him speak her 
name gently, for it was he that her thoughts 
were centered on. She only wondered if she 
were not dreaming. He pushed the gate open, 
then came and stood by her, 

“You, too, are out for a stroll in the beau- 
tiful moonlight.” 

As she drew her mantle closer about her. 

“Yes, I could not remain indoors on an 
evening like this.” 


41 


Leroy thought that she never looked more 
beautiful than now. He must know his fate. 
How he longed to take her in his arms and 
pour out his heart of pure love, but he dared 
not. And looking straight into her bright 
eyes he said: 

“Merle, I love you. Will you not try to re- 
turn that love and one day be my wife?” 

She hesited a few minutes and then look- 
ing up into his face with a bright smile said: 

“I will.” 

And there with no one save God as a wit- 
ness, two hearts were bound together forever 
by sacred promise. They were too happy to 
talk. 

The night air was growing chilly; Leroy 
placed her mantle over her shoulders and led 
her to the house, and after paying respects to 
Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell he made his departure, 
a perfectly happy man. Oh! that nothing had 
ever come to mar their perfect happiness ! 


42 


Chapter III. 


^ ^ ^ERRIS Leroy was, truly, the happiest 
^ boy that ever lived — he thought. He 
had the promise of heart and hand 
of one that was as pure and gentle as the 
fairest flower that ever blossomed on old 
mother earth. He was contented now to go 
back to his work. And, if need be, he would 
work more earnestly than ever before, so that 
when Merle Maxwell became his wife he could 
give her every comfort and grant every wish 
that heart could desire. His greatest pleasure 
was to live for her alone. He would have 
willingly given his life rather than to have 
seen one shadow cross her bright happy life. 
She should never know the unkind remark 
uttered against her by that despicable person 
on the street. 


43 


He went back once more and bade her 
goodbye, promising to return as often as his 
work would permit, if just for a day. 

Merle was as happy as a lark. This new 
love coming into her heart and life inspired 
her to a nobler, more consecrated life than 
ever before. Her ideals of a home were the 
highest conceivable. Above all, she wanted a 
Christian home with God ruling supremely. 
True is the love that lifts one to a better and 
nobler life. 

Merle Maxwell had never kept a secret 
from her dear, good mother, but she would 
not tell anyone of her wonderful happiness 
just yet. It was so sweet to know that no one 
knew but her and Derris. She knew that 
both her father and mother liked and admir- 
ed him and that was enough. 

If she thought that no one knew of her 
love for Derris Leroy but him and herself, she 
was mistaken. For one day, not long after his 


44 


departure, she was in the kitchen trying to as- 
sist Texanna in some baking when that wor- 
thy old soul patted her on her shoulder. 

“Honey, Fse so glad yo’ loves Marser Le- 
roy. He ’peers to be such a fine young gen’l- 
man.” 

“Thank you. Aunt Texanna, but who told 
you this?” 

“Nobody, chile. Aint I got eyes? Can’t I 
see how happy you is?” 

“But Auntie, haven’t I always been hap- 
py?" 

“’Course, honey, but there’s a new expres- 
sion o’ happiness on yo’ angel face.” 

“I am so glad. Auntie.” 

And the old darky nodded her kinky head 
in approval as if to say, "I won’t tell nobody, 
honey.” 

The days went on pleasantly. The ground 
was covered with the winter’s snow. Soon the 
Christmas holidays would be on hand and 


45 


Merle was happily engaged in making gifts. 
Each little Sunday school scholar must be 
remembered. Then, she knew some p>oor lit- 
tle children, whose hearts had never been 
made happy on Christmas eve by some little 
gift. Besides, there were a host of relatives 
and friends that she would like to remember! 
Yes, she must think of something for each 
servant, especially for Aunt Texanna. She 
was working light hearted early and late. 

One day the mail brought a letter con- 
taining information that a near relative of her 
mother was seriously ill which necessitated 
Mrs. Maxwell’s leaving at once. Thus leaving 
the overseeing of all the househdd cares to 
Merle. 

She got along wonderfully with the serv- 
ants. And with the aid of her father all was 
going well, until one day when he became 
suddenly ill. ** When it rains it pours’' is a true 
old adage. At first she was startled at the 


46 


situation. Then she laid aside all thoughts of 
her gift making and took the entire responsi- 
bilities of the domestic affairs upon her young 
shoulders. She had watched her mother and 
heard her give directions to the servants. 
And as nearly as possible she followed in 
her steps. Truly, the prospect of this fast ap- 
proaching Christmas was a gloomy outlook to 
Merle, but not one time did she murmur. Of 
course she would have liked for existing cir- 
cumstances to have been different, but she 
was not one to complain. 

The snow had ceased falling; the day be- 
fore Christmas eve dawned clear and bright; 
and with it, to the surprise of all, came Mrs. 
Maxwell. The ill relative was safely on the 
road to recovery. Surely things were changing 
for the better as quickly as they had changed 
for worse a few weeks previous. Mr. Maxwell 
was able to stir about in his room. 

The same afternoon Merle went out and 


47 


purchased gifts instead of those lying in her 
work basket unfinished. Just one other wish 
granted and her happiness would be complete. 
Leroy had written that it would be impossible 
for him to spend Christmas with her, since he 
could not leave his work just at that time. 
Hence he would be forced to spend a lonely 
Christmas away from her. In spite of this, all 
Christmas eve she watched for him, hoping 
some good fortune would yet befall him. And 
she knew that he would come if opportunity 
presented itself. Well, she had many, many 
things for which to be happy, even if Leroy 
could’t come. But a surprise awaited her. 

On Christmas day she was sitting before 
the fire enjoying some chocolates, when Madie 
came in and announced a gentleman to see 
“Miss Merle.” 

As she stepped out into the reception hall 
there stood Derris Leroy. Surely this was the 
iiappiest Christmas that she had ever spent. 


48 


Leroy had only a day or two for vacation. He 
could only spend a few hours with Merle, but 
happy were those few hours for both. All day 
they talked and planned for their future, and 
in the afternoon Mr. Maxwell insisted that he 
remain and participate in the old-fashioned 
turkey dinner that Aunt Texanna had pre- 
pared. 

These few pleasant hours passed all too 
quickly. And again Leroy bade good-bye to 
the dear old place and its inmates, to take up 
his work with renewed energy. Since a mere 
boy he had worked diligently, climbing higher 
and higher. He had invested largely in prop- 
erty and other profitable resources. Now he 
was glad for every denied pleasure. Many 
were the times when others were enjoying life 
that his thoughts were lost in careful plan- 
ning. Oh, that she had gone with him this 

happy Christmas. But she was young and he 
was yet in his twenties. And she wished to 


49 


stay in her good home yet a while. He did not 
insist. Her pleasure and happiness was his 
greatest desire now. He would build and pre- 
pare a home for her in Mayfield — the best that 
money could obtain. Yes, he would plant 
beautiful trees and make a flower garden to 
beautify their home, because she loved these. 
Then, when she wished, he would take her to 
be queen of that home. These two were not 
ashamed of their love for each other, yet they 
were not ready for the world to know of their 
engeigement. 

After the excitement of the Christmas hol- 
idays came quietude; and the little village set- 
tled down once more into its life of content- 
inent. Nevertheless, the gossipers were faithful 
to their calling. Felecia Langford had enough 
news to impart to keep her busy for days. She 
informed each of her neighbors, in a very con- 
fidential manner, that Derris Leroy had spent 
Christmas with the Maxwells. She guessed 


50 


the Maxwells would be glad to make a match 
with Merle and “that” Mr. Leroy, provided they 
could. 

Mrs. Langford had not found much conso- 
lation in expressing her opinions of Merle Max- 
well, until one day when she was confiding 
her thoughts to Miss Amanda Ogilvie, who 
agreed with her completely. Amanda Ogilvie 
had long since passed her thirtieth birthday 
and had not, as yet, succeeded in captivating 
a life companion. As Felecia Langford grew 
more and more enthused over her narrative, 
probably due to an attentive listener, concern- 
ing Merle and Leroy, Miss Amanda turned up 
her small, sharp nose in utter disgust. 

“I wouldn-t go with that ugly human for 
anything in the world.” 

And while she spoke she knew that she 
wished it had been she instead of Merle Max- 
well, who had the admiration of this worthy 
young man. Though she was his senior by a 


51 


few years, at least, she remembered the hope 
that had leaped into her heart when she had 
seen him at first and how she wished that he 
might come her way. The scar now on her 
forehead reminded her of the attempt at curl- 
ing her hair with an old discarded table fork, 
after searching several minutes in vain for 
the long-forgotten curling irons, on a Sabbath 
morn when he had first come to the little vil- 
lage, Of late, she had felt a keen conscious- 
ness of her age and appearance. These facts 
she imparted to no one. 

Mrs. Langford arose to go. At the door she 
turned back. 

“Amanda, did you know that another was 
to see Merle Maxwell the other day ?” 

Miss Ogilvie took a step nearer the door. 

“Felecia Langford, how did you hear this?” 

T didn’t hear; I saw with my own eyes, as 
I passed there a few days ago, a young man 
leaving the house and Merle standing in the 


52 


door. I don’t know for the life of me who he 
was. He looked like a perfect dude. I would 
just like to know what Derris Leroy would 
think of that. But Merle will be sure that he 
never knows,” she muttered as she went out 
at the gate. 

In this Mrs. Langford was wrong, as we 
shall see, for Amanda Ogilvie’s thoughts were 
already at work. 

A few days previous to Mrs. Langford’s 
neighborly call on Amanda, Merle Maxwell 
was improving her time at the piano when 
she was pleasantly surprised by the appear- 
ance of an old school-mate who happened to 
be passing throug the village. They had not 
sean each other since their senior year in the 
village school. 

Pleasantly the afternoon was spent in 
talking over their happy school days, and 
when the time came, which passed all too 
quickly, for him to go. Merle had followed him 


53 


to the door just in time to see Feleeia Lang- 
ford pass in her hansom. Glad, indeed, was 
she to see this childhood comrade, as she 
would have been glad to see any of her old 
school mates. She knew that she would tell 
Derris of her unexpected pleasure and he, too, 
would be glad. 

A new year had dawned, and the time to 
elect or re-elect officials in the little village 
church had arrived. That Merle was re-elect- 
ed teacher of her class is not surprising, for 
not one little member would willingly give 
her up. One by one the classes had been pro- 
vided with teachers. 

Then the nominations for an organist were 
made and the nominee voted on. The one 
elected by a great majority of votes was no 
other than Merle Maxwell. Well, she felt it 
an honor to have these offices in the church 
conferred upon her, but here was one too gen- 
tle and well-born to feel vain. She felt keenly 


54 


her unworthiness, and realized a great respon- 
sibility before her. But she had never shirked 
a church duty and would not in this. 

She half wished that it had been some 
other than herself, and altogether wished it 
when she heard Felecia Langford remark to a 
group of ladies that she didn’t see why they 
didn’t put some one else in. Right here we 
must say that Felecia Langford, in her young- 
er days, had studied music for a few months 
and had taught, or tried to teach, a little class 
of beginners. And she felt that no one in or 
near the little village knew quite so much 
about music as she. Apparently, she failed to 
realize that those whom she had once tried to 
teach could now easily teach her. But this 
vainglorious character would have been the 
last to acknowledge a fault or wrong. For 
some, to look upon her sanctimonious coun- 
tenance, it would appear that she had never 
even made a mistake in her life. But, to the 


55 


careful observer, a heart and life black with 
deceit was clearly visible. Oh, what a help it 
would have been had she spoken a kind word 
of praise instead of those cruel, hurtful words. 
But the truth, dear reader, is this: she wanted 
the honor of being organist herself. If Merle 
had but known the sorrow and heart-aches 
destined her by this woman, she would have 
willingly given her the place that she so cov- 
eted. 

Merle left the little church this Sabbath 
morning with the heaviest heart that she had 
ever borne. Oh, if people would only busy 
themselves with their own affairs and speak 
kindly of others or not speak at all, what a 
wonderful world this would be! The horror of 
pure Christian characters being crushed by a 
selfish motive! 

On account of the absence of the organist, 
Felecia Langford, on a few occasions, had pre- 
sided at the little church organ. A comical 


56 


sight she was, indeed, as she sat at the instru- 
ment with her tall stiff form bent forward and 
gazing intently on the music before her 
through her nose spectacles, her entire being 
shaking with exertion as she counted to her 
playing. Sometimes aloud and again in low 
mumbling tones could be distinguished her 
“one and, two and, three and, four and.” Had 
she only desired the information, some of her 
old pupils could have enlightened her with 
the information that it was wiser to play to 
one’s counting instead of counting to one’s 
playing. 

While things were thus taking place in 
Popularville we will go back for a short time 
to our hero, who was sitting in his room com- 
posing a letter to Merle Maxwell, when a 
knock sounded on his door. He arose from 
his writing desk and opened the door to ad- 
mit a couple of boy friends who had come to 
spend the evening with him. He, himself, did 


57 


not smoke, but he rang for a servant and or- 
dered cigars for the other two gentlemen be- 
fore entering into conversation. For a time 
they discussed current events. One discus- 
sion leading to another, until one of the young 
men noticed the unfinished letter, and, being 
somewhat mischievous, began at once to jest 
Leroy concerning to whom it was written. 
Derris Leroy did a thing very unlike his quiet, 
sincere nature. He went to the desk in pre- 
tense of finishing the message. But instead, 
pushed the unfinished letter aside and wrote 
a very short, friendly letter to Amanda Ogil- 
vie. Then laid it on the desk in plain view of 
the other parties. Now, our hero was not giv- 
en to frivolities of any nature and seldom joked 
anyone. But he knew that his friend, at one 
time, had been on extremely friendly terms 
with Miss Ogilvie, and took this means of play- 
ing even with him. The merriment went on 
for a few minutes, then they went back to 
their former conversation. 


58 


At length the young men arose to make 
their departure. Leroy followed them out on 
the balcony wishing them a pleasant good 
evening, when one of the young men returned, 
hurriedly, into the house to procure a forgot- 
ten umbrella; for outside a cold mist of rain 
was falling. He stepped into the room and 
picked up his umbrella, Then, turning to Le- 
roy’s desk he seized the unintended letter 
written to Amanda Ogilvie and also an envel- 
ope which Leroy had addressed to Merle Max- 
well early in the evening. 

After the boys had gone, Leroy returned 
to his room intent upon finishing his letter to 
-Merle. In his eagerness to write, and every- 
thing being banished from his mind save the 
thought of the dearest one in all the world to 
him, he failed to notice the absence of either 
the letter or the envelope. 

The following morning he went out and 
mailed the letter, together with a box of choc- 


59 


lates, to Merle Maxwell. Then he set about 
his usual day’s work. His father had died ere 
Leroy had scarcely spent his twenty-first birth- 
day. His mother had gone to make her future 
home with an only daughter. And he, in his 
young manhood, had started out to face the 
world alone. Not alone, for he knew and real- 
ized the presence of One ever true and right 
that had been taught him at his mother’s 
knee in childhood. And with Him he was not 
afraid to face the realities of life. It was then 
that he met Mr. Latney who taught him the 
art of finishing wood work. Later, he secured 
a position as traveling salesman, climbing 
higher and higher, until now he was superin- 
tendent of a company at Mayfield, where he 
intended building a home for himself and 
and Merle. During the day his thoughts were 
centered on his duties. In the long evenings 
he was free to think of and plan for her. 

Happiness was his, as he walked to his of- 


60 


fice on this morning. Not one time had he 
thought of the friendly message that he had 
written to Amanda Ogilvie the previous even- 
ing — it was only a joke. He had had no in- 
tention of mailing it. When he had made his 
first appearance in Popularville to spend a few 
days with Mr, Latney, he had met Miss Ogil- 
vie, just as he had met others, and he thought 
of her only as an elderly friend, if he ever 
thought of her at all. He had merely shown 
a friendly disposition by turning the joke on 
his friend. Oh, that he had never done this ! 
It was so unlike him to joke with any one. 
Never before was he known to jest concerning 
any one, and this was intended for his mis- 
chievous friend, only. 

Had Felecia Langford and Amanda Ogil- 
vie had the pleasure of witnessing this little 
incident from beginning to end, their hearts 
would have been made to rejoice. They could 


61 


not have wished anything more pleasing to 
them, for they were happiest when they knew 
that their superiors were suffering. 


62 


Chapter IV. 


(jT outside had been a gloomy 

one. Here and there could be seen 
streaks of the blue sky, seemingly 
forcing its appearance through the cold, gray 
clouds, that had been hovering near all day. 
Occasionally the sun forced a ray of light on 
old mother earth, vanishing as suddenly as it 
had appeared, leaving all the more desolate. 

Merle Maxwell, happy in heart though 
somewhat lonely and anxious, had gone to the 
window for the twentieth time and gazed in- 
tently out in search of the village postman. 
The last time her wish was granted, for just a 
short distance from her home she could detect 
an object coming into view over the little hill. 
Waiting and watching for just a moment she 
knew too well the uniform to belong to no 



63 


other than the village postman that she had 
watched for so much of late. 

It seemed that he would never reach her 
house. And in her eagerness she hurriedly 
went out at the door, halting as she started 
down the steps. What if there should be no 
mail today; no message from the one that she 
most wanted to hear from? She walked on 
more slowly down the long gravel walk, and 
met one of the servants coming up with the 
mail. Madie must have partly read the ques- 
tion in the expression of her young mistress’s 
face, for she answered by giving her the mail, 
which consisted of an only letter. And fear- 
ing that her mistress was disappointed, said: 

“Not much mail today. Miss Merle, such a 
bad day.” 

As she uttered this last remark she looked 
up te see her lady ascend the last step and 
enter the house. 

At one fleeting glance Merle had recogniz- 


64 


<ed the hand writing now so familiar to her, and 
hastened to her room to be alone with the 
contents of the letter which she had waited so 
anxiously for. She always wanted to be alone 
to read the message from Leroy, and usually 
sought her own private room. Eagerly she 
broke the seal and read: 

“Dear Miss Ogilvie: 

I was certainly glad to receive a letter 
from you. I am always glad to know you are 
well and happy, for I know you are deserving 
and worthy. You don’t know how I would en- 
joy seeing all of you. I certainly enjoyed my- 
self when there before. I would enjoy hearing 
you play your new music. I am sure it is grand 
to hear. It seems that everyone should be 
happy now for the South is enjoying prosper- 
ity now and I hope it may continue. Write 
me a long letter when you get this. 

“Your friend, 

“Derris Leroy.” 

As she read the last word the letter slip- 
ped from her hands to the floor. For a mo- 
ment she stood with clasped hands, staring 


65 


blankly, then sank to the floor. No, she did 
not faint, but it seemed that her strength had 
failed her. She had never had such feelings. 
Why could she not think ? She had no energy 
to rise, and for moments sat with bowed head, 
and hands clasped to her heart. 

Presently she arose, picked up the letter 
and tried to collect her thoughts. There was 
the letter written to Amanda Ogilvie, and the 
envelope addressed to herself all in Leroy’s 
handwriting that she knew so well. It was 
unmistakable. He had evidently written to 
both her and Amanda Ogilvie at the same 
time. And through mistake he had sent her 
letter to Miss Ogilvie. At the same time 
sending Miss Ogilvie’s letter to her. How 
could it be true? Yet, it was so plain. And 
he had said in his letter that he was glad to 
receive a letter from Miss Ogilvie. He had en- 
joyed himself when there. When had he 
been there? And when, or where had he met 


66 


Amanda Ogilvie, whom he so much admired? 
Yes, he thought she was so deserving and 
worthy. And he wanted to hear her play. 
Oh! what should she do? But she felt in her 
heart that there must be some mistake. Le- 
roy had said that he cared for no one but her- 
self and she knew he was true. Oh! if she 
could only think, think, think. 

Again and again she read the short mis- 
sive. She noticed that it had been written 
hurriedly. There was no doubt about it 
being Derris’ own writing. But it was not like 
the even, smooth and carefully composed 
letters that she had been accustomed to re- 
ceiving from him. It was not her letter and 
she had no right to continue reading it. She 
would send it to Amanda Ogilvie and offer her 
apologies for having read it at all, though it 
was through a mistake. 

She remained in her room, not caring to 
disclose her distress to anyone. The after- 


67 


noon was almost spent and the usual hour 
for dinner at the Maxwell home had arrived- 
Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell had seated themselves, 
at the dining table, when they noticed the ab- 
sence of their fair daughter — the life and sun- 
shine of the home. Mrs. Maxwell summoned 
Madie and sent her to inquire after her lady. 
Madie soon returned with the intelligence 
that “Miss Merle” was the victim of a slight 
headache; and begged them to excuse her ab- 
sence from dinner. The excuse being accept- 
able, the meal went on as usual save for the 
absence of Merle’s jolly, desirable presence- 
Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell trusted their daughter 
implicitly. They knew that she would not 
absent herself from their presence without a 
reasonable excuse, and that she had sent. 

However, Aunt Texanna was not content- 
ed with Madie’s answer. After dinner had 
been served; the last dish put in its proper 
place; the silverware carefully polished and 


68 


laid away, she stole softly up to “her baby’s” 
room and knocked gently on the door. Merle 
bade her come in and was somewhat surpris- 
ed when she beheld Aunt Texanna coming 
cautiously in. 

Texanna was astonished when she saw the 
paleness and drooping head of the girl she had 
nursed from infancy. Going up to her she 
laid ner black, chubby hand, tenderly, on her 
head. 

“Honey, what ails yo’?” ' 

Merle, trying to appear in her usual alert 

I way, replied: 

1 “Not anything.Auntie, only a slight head- 

ache. I shall be allright soon. Besides, if I 
should need anything I will call you. So don’t 
worry.” 

Thus kindly dismissed the old darky quit- 
ed the room, doubtfully shaking her kinky 
head. 

I Before retiring Mrs. Maxwell went up to 


69 


inqure after her daughter. And being assrued 
that there was nothing serious, bade her an 
affectionate good night. For Merle, it was a 
sleepless night. Tossing on her bed until the 
break of day had dawned. Then falling into 
a troubled slumber, only to awake to the 
dreadful realities of the unfortunate letter. 

She arose, went to her desk and address- 
ed an envelope to Derris Leroy. In this en- 
velope she placed Amanda Ogilvie’s letter 
that she had received the previous day, and 
mailed it early that day. She did not send it 
to Miss Ogilvie as she had thought of doing 
the day before. But instead,she sent it to Le- 
roy with apologies for having read that which 
was not intended for her. It all seemed like 
a dream. She could scarcely believe it was 
true. Oh ! how could she tell her mother that 
he was untrue? Of course it w'as only a 
friendly letter to Amanda Ogilvie. But from 
the tone of the letter their messages were 


70 


evidently a frequent occurrance. They had 
solemenly promised each other on that mem- 
orable night, with God as an only witness, to 
love and live for each other alone. The letter 
was plainly Leroy’s handwriting. Yet, some- 
thing, intuition perhaps, told her that there 
was a mistake. She could not doubt his fi- 
delity. She did not understand; and her 
thoughts were so confused. 

The days passed wearily on for Merle. To 
the world she was apparently the same hap- 
py and contented girl. But inwardly her 
heart was breaking from disappointment in 
the one she loved and trusted. Her thoughts 
were continually dwelling on those happy and 
never-to-be forgotten days that she had spent 
with him — her lover. She strived hard each 
day to blot him out of her memory, but all in 
vain. For one of Merle Maxwell’s gentle na- 
ture, to love, means a love of whole heart and 
life ever true and unchangable. Since the 


71 


night of her betrothal, Merle Maxwell had not 
failed to ask God each day to bless and keep 
her lover and to guard them in their love. 
Now, she prayed more earnestly and more 
frequently. Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell knowing 
nothing of their child’s distress suspected no- 
thing, but to the most careful observer could 
be detected a sadness in the bright eyes and 
countenance. And from the night she had 
complained of a headache, Texanna carefully 
watched her “baby.” And often the corner of 
her clean, checked apron was raised to her 
eyes. 

The cold, winter days were written down 
in the book of memory. Spring in all its 
beauty was approaching. The magnolias and 
cottonwoods were putting on their coats of 
green. Here and there could be seen cape 
jassamines budding forth. The tiny, wild 
flowers were Ailing the air with sweet odor. 
Various birds could be heard chirping and 


72 


singing their sweet melodies, in nearby woods. 
If autumn is beautiful, where do we find 
words to express the grandeur of springtime? 

Merle Maxwell, in her disappointment and 
sadness of heart, had not once failed in her 
duties to her God and church. Just a few 
days until Easter Sunday, and she, with oth- 
ers, were striving hard to make the Easter 
program at the little church a success. The 
ladies and children had met at the church a 
few times for rehearsal when, one afternoon, 
Felecia Langford suggested that the children 
together with Merle, meet in her house the 
following afternoon, for the purpose of re- 
hearsing some special songs with the children. 
And, accordingly, turned to Merle and insist- 
ed that she be present since she was to fur- 
nish the instrumental music. She consented 
to do so, and on the following afternoon was 
there at the appointed hour. 

After rehearsing as long as they deemed 


73 


necessary and the children had departed for 
their homes, Felecia Langford drew her chair 
up near the fire, for there was a cool Easter 
gale*,and said: 

“Merle, do you know why Amanda Ogilvie 
doesn’t go to church more often?” 

‘“Why no, Mrs. Langford, I am sure I don’t” 
replied Merle somewhat surprised. Felecia 
Langford lowered her tone: 

“Well, I can just tell you. It is because 
you are organist and she wanted to have that 
place herself. She even said that she nor any 
of her reletives should not go the choir so 
long as you hold that position.” 

Merle, thoroughly astonished at this in- 
formation: 

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Langford,” she said, 
“I wish it had been she elected instead of my- 
self. It is not my intention to keep anyone 
away from the church, and I am very sorry if 


74 


I have in any way offended her or any of her 
relatives.” 

And as she arose to go, not caring to con- 
tinue the conversation, Felecia Langford re- 
marked: 

“I wouldn’t give over to Amanda Ogilvie 
if I were you. It wouldn’t be right. The 
church wanted you or it would not have 
elected you.” 

“I am very sorry for it all, Mrs. Langford,” 
is all Merle said as she tied on her straw som- 
brero and went on her way home with an- 
other grievance added to her already aching 
heart. That evening as she sat in her room 
pondering over the words of Felecia Langford, 
she asked herself: 

“What is the reward for fidelity and loyal- 
ty to one’s church?” For some, there is love 
and happiness; for others, criticism and des- 
pondency. 

Easter Sunday arrived and she went to 


75 


Sabbath school as usual, and went throughi 
services as though Felecia Langford had not 
spoken Amanda Ogilvie’s name to her. When 
church was over Merle immediately started 
for home, preferring to be alone with her 
thoughts. And as she went down the little 
church aisle some one touched her arm, and 
turning, a gentleman said; 

“May I speak to you a moment. Miss 
Merle?” 

“Yes,” she answered, and followed him to 
the front of the building. When they had 
reached the secretary’s desk the gentleman, 
an old friend of the Maxwell family said: 

“Miss Merle, if I were you, I would not at- 
tend the Easter program this evening. I have 
heard through reliable persons that Felecia 
Langford and Amanda Ogilvie are planning a 
public insult for you on this occasion.” 

“I will consider this, Mr. Topleitz, but why 
should these two plan humiliation for me? I 


76 


have never intentionally offended either in 
any way. Besides, both the ladies, Mrs. Lang- 
ford especially, appear to be such true 
friends..’ 

Mr. Topleitz looked kindly down upon the 
child of his old comrade and friend; 

“Ah, child, you have much to learn yet of 
this cold, unfriendly world! Deceit often lurks 
where least expected. We all know that no 
one has a just cause to inflict humiliation and 
mortification upon you, but often the pure 
and innocent are made to suffer by the cruel 
words and unkind deeds of others, whose 
hearts are black with sin.” 

“I thank you,” she said, “and shall careful- 
ly consider the things you have said before 
making my decision.” And looking about she 
saw that the church was vacated save for the 
janitor. She hurried out to her waiting car- 
riage and ordered the driver to speed the po- 
nies homeward. 


77 


All the afternoon she debated the ques- 
tion in her mind, should she go or remain at 
home? At length, she decided to go and ful- 
fil her duty suffering the consequences what- 
ever they might be. She was ready to go and 
had gone in to pay respects to her mother 
before going, when a servant rushed in saying 
one of the ponies had taken suddenly ill and 
he had telephoned for the veterinarian. Mrs, 
Maxwell would not risk her child to go behind 
any save the ponies, especially in the eve- 
nings. Fearing the driver might become 
careless, leaving her child’s life at the peril 
of a spirited team. 

As to whether this incident was provi- 
dential you may judge for yourself, dear read- 
er. If providence favored Merle Maxwell it 
also favored Felecia Langford, for that Easter 
night she exultingly seated herself at the lit- 
tle church organ and triumphantly begun, her 
“one and, two and, three and, four and.” 


78 


Adam Langford, the little hen pecked 
husband of Felecia Langford, was (unfortu- 
nately for Popularville) an official in the 
church. Being a small, self-conceited person- 
age, he was ever glad of an opportunity to 
exercise his authority. And on the following 
week, urged on by his wife, he called a meet- 
ing of the official board and at once made 
known his object by proposing and in- 
sisting upon the election of a new organist, at 
the same time suggesting Amanda Ogilvie. 
The other members of the session were sur- 
prised to the extent of being struck dumb. 
While they stood there speechless, trying to 
collect their thoughts, Adam Langford con- 
tinued by asking if any one had any objec- 
tions. Not a word broke the silence and he 
declared that silence gave consent. Felecia 
Langford, evidently had one motive in view: 
if she could not preside as organist she would 
leave no stone unturned to prevent another 


79 


her superior, from holding the same office. 

A few days latter the village club meet in 
session. At which time Felecia Langford 
took pleasure in announcing that Popular- 
ville now boasted a new organist. If this self- 
opinionated person thought Merle Maxwell 
had no friends she was quite mistaken; every 
lady in the house rose up in defense of one so 
gentle and pure. 

Ere long the facts of these events reached 
the ears of Merle; and it seemed that she 
could endure no more. Never had she spok- 
en aught against Felecia Langford or any one. 
Had she been told that Mrs. Langford was 
other than a true friend, she would not have 
believed it. Sincere, honest and frank, was 
Merle Maxwell, having been taught these true 
principles from earliest childhood. And she 
expected the same of others. Not one time in 
her life had she spoken unkindly to any one; 
not even a servant. Never had she failed up- 


80 


-on the most trying occasions to master her 
temper. 

However, this could not always be true. 
For one day she met Felecia Langford. And 
looking upon one who had tried without cause 
to bring her to humiliation and mortification; 
one she had trusted as a friend, but now knew 
to be false and unworthy; her indignation 
grew more and more intense until almost 
before she was aware of it, she was stand- 
ing face to face with her enemy. With un- 
quivering voice she said: 

“Mrs. Langford, why have you announced 
that Miss Amanda Ogilvie has been elected 
organist in my stead?” 

As she adjusted her nose spectacles, Fele- 
cia Langford announced in a contemptious 
tone: 

“Because it is true. Mr. Langford is a rul* 
ing official and in their last meeting he de- 
cided to make the change. You are to con- 
tinue to play for Sunday school. You can 


81 


play every Sabbath and Amanda only twice 
a month, since we do not have preaching 
more often than that.” 

“Very well, Mrs. Langford,” replied Merle, 
“I am no child that you should speak to me 
in that manner. I trust that you and yours 
will never be treated as you have dealt with 
me.” 

Merle went on her way and after she had 
quelled her feelings, was soon lost in thought. 
Yes, Adam Langford was an official in the 
church, but sad the pity. She didn’t mind 
giving up her position. It was not that. But 
the mere idea of being humiliated in this way 
and by Felecia Langford, too. But had she 
committed a wrong in thus speaking to her 
enemy. Before retiring that night she asked 
God to forgive her and help her endure her 
afflictions. She knew that it was impossible 
to longer conceal her grief and she confided 
all to her mother, save that other which was 
breaking her heart day by day — the disap- 
pointment in Derris Leroy. 


82 


Chapter V. 


t!^' '-Hi 

iT 5ri "ii.ERRIS Leroy sat in his room. On 

V ill V 

^ ^ the marble topped table before him 

lay numerous letters unopened. He 
picked them up one by one scanning the post- 
mark of each. Some were business letters; 
others of little or no importance. These he 
cast aside. At last his gaze fell upon the fa- 
miliar manuscript he eagerly sought. Busi- 
ness letters could wait until he enjoyed for a 
few minutes the contents of one of far more 
significance than all others. 

He tenderly broke the seal and to his ut- 
ter astonishment, beheld the letter that he 
had written to Miss Ogilvie as a joke. Now, 
for the first time his thoughts went back to 
the letter and joke. Like a thunder-bolt the 
truth flashed into his mind. He remembered 
clearly that on the night of his friendly call. 


83 


his friend had returned to his room on the 
plea of a forgotten umbrella or something of 
the kind. Yes, he even thought now of the 
envelope he had addressed to Merle when he 
first begun her letter. And this was the ex- 
planation of it all. Then he had not given the 
missing envelope a thought, considering it a 
mere trivial. As the full situation presented 
itself clearly to view, with ashen face he ex- 
claimed: 

“My God! what have I done?” 

For hours he walked back and forth across 
his room, finally deciding to write her — 
whom he loved better than life itself — an ex- 
planation of the whole affair, making it as 
plain as it was possible for him to do. As the 
last sentence was finished he tore the letter 
into pieces and threw it into the waste bas- 
ket. She would not believe it; it was all too 
plain; the letter to Amanda Ogilvie in his own 


84 


manuscript. No, he had lost all through a 
few moments of carelessness. 

He sat in his chair — how long he knew 
not — until he heard the familiar tolling of the 
bell for the Roman Catholic six o’clock mass. 
Not until then had it occurred to him that he 
had not slept. His room was in perfect order. 
His bed had not been touched. He could not, 
contentedly, go to his work without having 
made an effort at rectifying the deviation. 
And once again he formed a letter explaining 
as best he could, but not one time pleading for 
himself. No, he would not even ask her to be- 
lieve him. Oh, the expense of those few mo- 
ments spent in frivolity! He had lost all that 
he possessed to make life sweet. Would she 
believe his word? Did she have sufficient con- 
fidence in him to trust him still? Would he 
ever hear from her again? These and a thous- 
and other questions rushed through his mem- 
ory. The letter to Amanda Ogilvie was of 


85 


little consequence as far as the letter itself 
was concerned. And had Merle Maxwell 
known him longer he knew that things would 
be different. As it was she would have just 
cause to distrust him forever. 

He rang the bell and ordered his letter 
posted. Then, with a broken heart, and a sad, 
lonely life, pictured in his mind, went to his 
office without having tasted breakfast. As he 
walked on, for in his state of utter depsonden- 
cy he prefered being alone, who was he to 
meet but his so-called friend who had played 
so dastardly a trick on him. As nearly as 
possible Leroy wished him a pleasant ‘'good- 
morning” in his usual way. 

But Mr. Norris, on noticing the unusual 
paleness of his face and his dejected appear- 
ance, stopped suddenly. 

“Why, Leroy, have you been ill?” 

“No,” replied he, “I feel quite well.” 

Mr. Norris, moved by so sudden a change 
in his manner, pressed him further. 

"Has anything gone wrong? You look as 


86 


though you had not slept for days.” 

While he was thus speaking, Leroy was 
debating in his mind as to whether he should 
acquaint him with the intense agitation his 
mischief-making had inflicted upon him and 
the girl he so dearly loved. Yes, he would tell 
him. Perhaps it would cause him to be more 
thoughtful in the future. And reaching in his 
waistcoat pocket brought forth the returned 
letter he had received the previous day. And 
holding it up in view, said: 

“Mr. Norris, this has been a serious joke at 
my expense. I doubt not that it has separated 
me forever from one dearer than all else 
to me.” 

“My dear Mr. Leroy, accept my apologies,’’ 
urged Mr. Norris. “I am very sorry indeed that 
I was not more considerate. I supposed Miss 
Maxwell to be merely a friend of yours. I am 
so sorry I mailed the letter. My intention re- 
garding you and your feelings are, I assure you, 
of the very best. You of all others do not de- 
serve this. I esteem your friendship very 


87 


highly. Is there anything I can do to rectify 
this great injury?” 

“No,” responded Leroy. “I am sure there is 
nothing. I do not censure you so much. I am 
first to blame for having been so frivolous as 
to write the pretended letter to Miss Ogilvie. 
I must have been out of my reason at the 
time, for, as you know, I seldom jest with any 
one. Miss Maxwell is more than a mere friend. 
She is all to me. Had she known me longer 
this would be of no consequence. 

With a look of gratitude Mr. Norris again 
begged him to accept his apoligies. 

“Yes,” assured Leroy as he took Mr, Nor- 
ris’ proffered hand, “and let this be a lesson of 
thoughtfulness to each of us.” And each went 
to his respective place of business. 

All day Mr. Norris deliberated as to what 
he could do to eliminate his name from the 
existing perplexities. And as soon as he was 
free from his duties, he sat down and wrote 
the following intelligence to Merle Maxwell: 


88 


“Dear Miss Maxwell: — 

I sincerely beg your pardon for mailing to 
you a letter which Mr. Leroy wrote as a joke. 
He wrote a letter to Miss Ogilvie on pretence 
of mailing it to her. And I mailed it to you 
instead, in an envelope that he had already 
addressed in your name. I know that it was 
not his intention that she should ever receive 
it. I am very sorry to have caused either of 
you any distress. I only purposed an inoffen- 
sive joke on him. In my opinion there is none 
more worthy and deserving than Derris Leroy. 
I again beg your pardon and his for any of- 
fense, and insist that you believe me. 

Gaston Norris.” 

Did he ring the bell and order his letter 
posted? No, he risked not the most trustwor- 
thy servant with this, but went out and mail- 
ed himself. Then he knew he had done his 
best and trusted that all would soon be well 
with his friend. 

To Derris Leroy the days grew longer and 
longer, as he toiled in his office early and late 
making out reports, answering various busi- 
ness letters, and seeing to numerous other 
things that he could trust to no other. Of 


89 


course he had an assistant, but he was a great 
believer in the policy that what we do our- 
selves is alway done. He grew anxious as he 
waited for a response to his recent letter of 
explanation. Or, would he ever receive an 
answer? How he missed her dear letters he 
was accustomed to receiving. Her letters were 
always cheerful and inspiring. In his thoughts 
he could not help comparing her with the fair- 
est of flowers, so pure and gentle was she. He 
was so glad that she was a true Christian’ 
for every man desires a pure Christian charac- 
ter to rule as queen of his home. He should 
never forget the earnestness in her tone as 
she said: 

“Derri% be true, flrst to God and then to 

me. 

And he had promised. Yes, he would for- 
ever keep that promise. He would be true to 
God for her sake; if no other. And here my 
young lady reader, let me beg of you to live 
pure unquestionable lives, always. And strive 
to bring the noble young manhood of our land 


90 


to know the God of the universe. You can if 
you but try. There’s nothing more commen- 
dable in one’s life than a pure unquestionable 
character. And this he knew Merle Maxwell 
possessed. She was as gentle and as pure as 
his own dear mother. **Love goes where it is 
sent'*and he believed that their meeting had 
been providential. And now, even though 
they were separated forever by a moment of 
his own folly, he would endeavor to live a life 
worthy of her alone. Whatever might come, 
he was glad he had met her. She had inspired 
him to live more faithfully the teachings of 
his mother. Perhaps, as his meditation con- 
tinued, it would have been better for both had 
he insisted on an early marriage. But no, that 
was not her wish. And her slightest wish 
should be granted, so far as it was in his pow- 
er to bestow. Oh! true love approved of God 
was forever imprinted upon the heart and 
memory of Deris Leroy. 


91 


Chapter VI. 


'■Hj 

^ QL ^ PRING was far advanced. June, the 


cs 


^ ^ ^ month of roses, was at hand. And 




one beautiful day while Mrs. Max- 
well and her devoted companion were stroll- 
ing out through the garden, admiring the vari- 
ous flowers and enjoying the pure gentle 
breezes, Mr. Maxwell suddenly remarked to 
his wife: 

“My, dear, had it occurred to you that 
our child’s health seems to be failing of late?’ 

“Yes,” returned Mrs. Maxwell, “the sudden 
change in her manner is almost alarming. 
Her ailment seems to be due to nervousness. 
I have also detected a slight lacking in her 
usual alertness; otherwise I can see no change.” 

“I have thought,” replied her husband, 
“that perhaps she remains in doors too much 
of late. She has always enjoyed outdoor sport 
so much. This is such an ideal day, why not 


92 


have Mose drive you and her out for a few 
hours? No doubt it would be refreshing to 
both." 

“You are so thoughtful,” responded Mrs. 
Maxwell. “I was just thinking how I should 
enjoy driving this afternoon.” 

While Mr. Maxwell went to order the pony 
carriage to be in readiness, his companionable 
wife called to her child. 

“All right mother.” echoed Merle’s sweet 
voice down the stairway. And soon she was 
in the presence of her mother, who exclaimed, 

“Make ready for a drive, quickly. The car- 
riage is waiting at the front now.” 

“Oh! mother, what a beautiful afternoon 
for going out,” she said as cheerfully as possi- 
ble. And presently Mr. Maxwell handed his 
wife and daughter into the carriage, at the 
same time cautioning Mose to be very careful 
in driving. While they were thus enjoying 
themselves, let us notice another incident 


93 


that took place at the Maxwell residence 
during their absence which is apparently of 
no importance. 

Mr. Maxwell returned to his paper and 
pipe which he had quitted to stroll out in the 
garden with his wife. 

Shortly afterwards at the usual hour the 
postman could be seen coming into view with 
the day’s latest mail. Usually a servant met 
him and took the mail in. But very frequent- 
ly Merle, herself, would run down to the little 
gate for her letters, so anxious was she to get 
them. To-day, on seeing no one present he 
rode up to the letter box and placed therein 
two letters which bore Merle Maxwell’s ad- 
dress, 

Madie chanced to see him just as he rode 
out of sight, and said: 

“Miss Merle sho will be dis’pinted agin to- 
day,” 

Old Texanna looking up in surprise ex- 
claimed: 


94 


"What do you mean, Madie Bryant? 
When has dat chile been dis’pinted?” 

With a triumphant grin Madie replied: 

‘■Just what I done said. Didn’t I done see 
de postman gwine down dat road widout so 
much as lookin’ dis way? And ain’t I seen 
Miss Merle evah day watching for him to 
bring her a letter from somebody and he 
ain’t done it yit?” 

Her anger rising at a servant thus speak- 
ing of her ‘ ‘baby,” Aunt Texanna said: 

“Clear out o’ heah, yo’ black rebel and 
mind yo’ own business.” At the same time 
pointing her chubby finger at the door through 
which Madie made her exit, composing and at 
the same time singing this little ballad: 

“Miss Merle^s beau is dead and rotten, 

And his bones up a trottin’. 

Ere her grief is forgotten 

Her head will be white as cotton.** 

“No black niggah can talk about dat sweet 
chile to Texanna Maxwell.” said Aunt Texan- 


95 


na, speaking her thoughts aloud. Madie, just 
outside, heard this remark and opening the 
door and peering in said teasingly: 

“Talk about the devil and he will disap- 
peah.” 

“Madie Bryant,” snapped Texanna, “what 
ails yo?” 

"Ain’t I just now seen Mose drive up to de 
front and Miss Merle and Missus done cornin’ 
up de walk. Wusnt yo’ talking ’bout Miss Merle 
and ain’t they just now disappeared^’ 

Madie closed the door just as Merle came 
rushing into the room. 

“Oh, Auntie, I’ve had such a pleasant 
drive.” And in the same breath, “did the 
postman bring any mail today?” 

“No, honey,” responded Texanna, “Madie 
says he never even look dis way.” 

The joyful expression on Merle’s sweet 
countenance died away as she turned and 


96 


went up to her room. Aunt Texanna sadly 
shook her kinky head. 

Merle keenly felt her disappointment. 
Today she had felt so hopeful. Something 
seemed to tell her that she should receive a 
message that day from Leroy. Intuition had 
forcibly impressed her that there had been 
some mistake. She could not censure him. 
No, she trusted him still. She knew that she 
could never endure to hear him censured and 
for that reason she told no one the real cause 
of her distress. Yes, she withheld this, the on- 
ly secret in her life, from her mother. She 
would love and tust him so long as she should 
live. On her dressing table i-n a small, oval 
shaped frame of real ivory, was his photo- 
graph which he had given her soon after the 
time of their engagement. Since then she 
kept it almost constantly before her. It seem- 
ed dearer now than ever before. If they 
should never meet again, the sweet memory 
of former days would be a pleasure to her. 


97 


Now, she could scarcely hope to hear from 
him or she should have ere this. She thought, 
as she continued to meditate that those oth' 
er perplexities — relating to the church — could 
be more easily borne with his counsel and 
kind words of encouragement, and, vice ver- 
sa, the barrier which had come between her 
and Derris would not seem quite so burden- 
some but for the cruel, inhuman backbitings 
of Felecia Langford. Daily, she read the Bi- 
ble that her mother had given her in early 
girlhood, striving more earnestly each day 
with His help, to live up to its teachings. And 
with a determination to live above the petty 
vexations of Felecia Langford and Amanda 
Ogilvie, she resolved to continue as best she 
could her duties to the little church of which 
she was a member. 

Having failed in her scheme to displace 
Merle as church organist, Felecia Langford 
decided to try another contrivance to mortify 


98 


and humiliate her. So, accordingly, the fol- 
lowing Sabbath she went to the Superintend- 
ent of the Sabbath school, at first suggesting 
and then insisting that the little members of 
Merle’s class be promoted to a higher class, 
which was taught by Amanda Ogilvie. She 
had pleaded in a very sanctimonious tone 
that they were too far advanced to remain 
longer in Miss Merle’s class. It was for the 
welfare of the children and the betterment 
of the Sabbath school, etc. At last the Su- 
perintendent assented to the change. At 
once Mrs. Langford went to impart her glad 
tidings to Amanda Ogilvie, who went imme- 
diately to Merle’s class distributing her litera- 
ture, and exultingly announcing to the little 
juniors that they were, henceforth, to be stu- 
dents of her class. So astonished was Merle 
that she uttered not a word, but left the little 
church so dear to her with another cross to 
bear. How she had merited all this she did 


99 


not understand. But she knew One who un- 
dersted and knew all. And to him she would 
go for courage and comfort. No doubt this pro- 
ject had been carefully planned before these 
two women had entered church on this Sab- 
bath morning. If they thought to be thus 
victorious in all their scheming against Merle 
Maxwell they were mistaken. 

While they were now at the church re- 
hearsing some special temperance selections 
Amanda Ogilvie intimated that Merle was 
not correctly rendering the accompaniment. 
Adam Langford seized the opportunity to ask 
her to let Amanda Ogilvie play it according 
to her view of reading music. She at once as- 
sented. And after Miss Ogilvie, with some 
difficulty, had concluded the selection be- 
fore her, Felecia Langford, triumphantly, and 
in distinct tones that all present might hear, 
asked aloud of a young lady just entering the 
pedagogical work, who was also an artist in 


100 


music and happened to be present, which had 
played the music correctly. Without hesi- 
tating the young lady replied that in her 
opinion Miss Maxwell had read and played 
the music correctly. Felecia Langford had 
hoped and expected her to say that Aman- 
da Ogilvie was correct, thus publicly mortify- 
ing Merle. However, she was defeated in this 
plan and for one time was sorry of her con- 
trivance. Merle Maxwell was ever ready and 
willing to hear others play. She knew that 
she was subject to errors, and appreciated ad- 
vice of others more skilled than herself. She 
was too well born to be unkind or impolite 
to anyone. Even those whom she knew 
would spare no pains to do her an injury. She 
was sorry for and felt in sympathy with Miss 
Ogilvie for, of late, she had keenly felt the 
sense of humilition several times on similar 
occassions. However, Felecia Langford was 
not outdone by her present mistake, for after 


101 


the rehearsal when some one remarked that 
Miss Maxwell understood music and played 
well, she responded that she did very well af- 
ter so much practicing and instruction. 
What a wonderful world this would be if such 
characters as Felecia Langford should turn 
their words of scorn to words of praise ! 



102 


Charter VII. 




1 3 


■"^HE days lengthened into weeks, 
^ ^ weeks into months, and still no 

tidings of Derris Leroy came to the 
Maxwell home. Trying indeed were those 
days for Merle. She had long since ceased 
pretending to be her former care-free self, but 
remained in her room more and more as the 
days went on continually pleading a headache. 
Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell were alarmed at their 
daughter’s failing health. While Aunt Texan- 
na persisted in silently watching her “baby” 
and doubtfully shaking her kinky head. Each 
Sabbath morn required a greater effort to go 
to the little village church and endure the 
torture inflicted upon her by the cruel words 
and deeds of Felecia Langford and her co- 
schemers — her self esteemed husband and 
Amanda Ogilvie. However“it is a long road 


103 


that never turns'*either for better or worse, 
and ere long Merle was to receive information 
concerning Leroy. 

All Popularville was up at the crowing of 
the cock on this extraordinary day designed 
for its first annual picnic. Never before in its 
eventful history had it been so alert. It seem- 
ed that the entire village and surrounding 
country, with lunch baskets filled to overfiow- 
ing,had assembled together beneath one small 
grove of magnolias. Every one seemed to en- 
ter into the festival spirit save one. Merle 
had almost secretly prayed that her parents 
would not insist on her accompanying them 
this day. She could remain at home attend- 
ed by the servants. She did not know that 
Mr. Maxwell had ordered Texana with Ma- 
dia’s help to make ready an appetizing lunch 
fit for a day’s outing, at the same time prom- 
ising the servants the remainder of the day as 
their own. Even Mose should be free from 


104 


duty. He, Mr, Maxwell, would drive the pony 
carriage himself, all on her own account. 
This pretense at merry making was mockery 
to her inward feelings. 

As soon as opportunity presented itself 
she slipped away freeing herself of the clat- 
tering noise. Now that she was alone what 
should she do? Where should she go? Her 
first thought was to hail a passing taxi and 
speed hurriedly homeward to the quiet of her 
own room. No, that would never do. Her 
parents would not understand. And just then 
spying a path leading out to a small group of 
trees away from the main grove, turned in 
that direction. Faster and faster she walked, 
intent upon spending the few remaining hours 
alone in the quiet and comfort of these mag- 
nificent trees, which seemed to stand there 
for the solace of aching hearts such as hers. 
She had always been a dear lover of trees^ 
and now they seemed to be more desirable 


105 


companions than ever before. She knew that 
in her present state of despondency she was 
not pleasing company to anyone. 

Thus were her thoughts so engrossed that 
her name had been spoken the second time 
ere she realized that she was not alone. And 
looking up greatly surprised, beheld Mr. Top- 
leitz who at once said: 

“I beg pardon, Miss Merle, for intruding. 
I discovered the little path leading in this di- 
rection, and the temptation to stroll out and 
admire these wonderful trees, also to free my- 
self for a short time of the intolerable noises 
made by those despicable whistles was too 
great.” 

“I, too,” responded Merle, “am here for that 
reason.” 

Ck)ncluding it to be merely a co-incidence, 
Mr. Topleitz resumed the conversation by ask- 
ing: 

“How is Mr. Leroy? Why are we not hon- 


106 


pred with his presence on this occasion?” 

Merle, answering both questions in one, 
said: 

“He is unable to leave his work at present.” 

And in a suspecting, but kind tone Mr. 
Topleitz continued, “Mr. Leroy is^ apparently, 
an excellent young man,” emphasizing the 
“apparently,” 

Speaking of him in this tone excited sus- 
picion and almost before she knew what she 
was about, was asking him what he knew 
about Leroy. Any news was better than 
none at all, she thought. At first Mr. Topleitz 
declined. Then, considering her welfare and 
happiness and esteeming the friendship of her 
father, said; 

“Miss Merle, I have heard that Mr. Leroy 
is a married man.” 

She suddenly felt the blood in her veins 
turn cold. The last remaining color in her 


107 


face must have died out, for Mr. Topleitz 
asked: 

“Are you ill, Miss Merle?” 

“No,” she stammered, “I only feel fatigued 
from the day’s outing. I think I shall return 
to the picnic grounds.” 

And taking his proffered arm they walked 
slowly back. And summoning her utmost 
strength Merle asked: 

“Who informed you of this intelligence 
concerning Mr. Leroy?” 

Noticing that Mr. Topleitz hesitated she 
volunteered: 

“I shall never betray your name in this if 
you prefer.” 

“In my position,” he responded, “I deem it 
necessary to debar my name from any occur- 
rances of this nature. But knowing you to be 
true to your word I will disclose the whole 
truth. It was Miss Ogilvie who informed me 


108 


and she, I presume, acquired the news through 
Mrs. Langford.” 

They had reached the picnic grounds and 
met Mr. Maxwell, who, after greeting his friend 
Topleitz turned to Merle and said: 

“I have searched this ground half a dozen 
times for you. Are you ready to return 
home?” 

“Yes, father, I am quite ready,” she said. 

Once at home and in her room she dung 
herself across the bed and remained there all 
night in a swoon. 

A few days later she called at the Ogilvie 
home and inquired for Miss Amanda. When 
she made her appearance Merle greeted her 
kindly, as she did every one. Then, just as 
kindly made known the object of her call by 
asking her when she received the intelligence 
that Leroy was a man of family. At which 
Miss Ogilvie flew into a violent rage. 

“Who told you that, Merle Maxwell?” And 
without waiting for a reply continued, “it was 


109 


that Topleitz and I know it. How dare he do 
such a thing?” 

After Miss Amanda had given vent to her 
feelings in a flow of passionate words, Merle 
calmly remarked: 

“Miss Ogilvie, I did not say that Mr. Top- 
leitz was my informant.” 

“But I know he was,” responded Miss Ogil- 
vie indignantly. 

“Who else could have told you?” In a kind 
but decisive tone Merle said, “Miss Amanda, it 
is immaterial as to when or from whom I 
heard this. I only wish to know who advised 
you of this and as nearly as possible the exact 
words used. Will you be so kind as to tell me.” 

The temptation was too great. Amanda 
Ogilvie could not permit this opportunity to 

I 

go by without the pleasure herself of relating 
to Merle the existing rumor. And at once 
changing her tone and manner of disgust and 
indignation to kindness, replied in a very sym- 
pathetic tone: 


no 


“My friend, Mrs. Langford told me that 
he was a man of family. She did not say 
who told her, and I did not have the impolite- 
ness to as-k. I thought of you directly after 
she told me.” And adding in a sneering, tan- 
talizing voice, “I have pittied you so much 
since hearing the rumor concerning him. I 
think it so hateful of Mr. Topleitz if it were he 
who imparted the facts to you.” 

“Ignoring these pretended, sympathetic 
remarks, Merle took her leave more bewilder- 
ed than ever as to what course to pursue. 
She believed this to be a false report con- 
cerning Leroy and that it originated in the 
Langford home. She wanted so much to ef- 
face this from her lost lover’s name. But she 
was utterly helpless to do more. She knew 
well that Felecia Langford would be the last 
to enlighten her in the least way. For this 
she must wait, wait, wait as for other 
things. 

Mr. Topleitz was a man of little more than 


111 


middle age. Though Mr. Maxwell was a few 
years his senior the two had been on intimate 
terms for years, being reared in the same com- 
munity and as neighbors. It is surprising but 
suffice to say that one so agreeable and pleas- 
ing to look upon remained yet unmarried. He 
was not a descendant of the German race, as 
his name implies. But judging from his deep, 
blue eyes and brown hair, rather Irish. His 
large, but well proportioned figure was also 
symbolic of the Irish. It was with the very 
best of intentions for her welfare that he had 
recounted to Merle that which Amanda Ogil- 
vie herself had related to him. And this she 
knew and appreciated. She had promised not 
to disclose his name in the incident, and this 
she had kept as nearly as possible. Little did 
she perceive that Amanda Ogilvie had gone 
to him in a fit of anger and abused him unrea- 
sonably, intimating that Merle had said it was 
he who had acquainted her of the news. Miss 
Ogilvie had recently entertained some hope of 


112 


gaining his favor and the thought of him con- 
versing thus intimately with Merle,added to her 
already jealous nature, was more than she 
could endure. And, too, she had been deprived 
of the pleasure of being first to break the news 
to her. She anticipated great satisfaction in ob* 
serving her maneuvers when told of the catas- 
trophe. 

It was with much ado that Miss Ogilvie re- 
lated in detail to Mrs. Langford the interview 
with Merle, which afforded this hypocritical 
individual much gratification. In their tete-a- 
tete Mrs. Langford confidently remarked, as 
she had to numerous others, that she did not 
deem it commendable for a young lady, unat- 
tended by a chaperon, to quit herself of the 
picnic and go rambling through the woods 
with a young man returning at a late hour 
as Merle Maxwell had done. Did Felecia Lang- 
ford think that these scandalous rumors would 
not reach the ears of Merle? No, indeed. This 


113 


she had purposed in her heart in the begin- 
ning. 

Day by day the heart of Merle was being 
crushed. With difficulty she forced herself to 
attend services at the little church. If she 
was less true to her church she was not to her 
God. Oh, how could she endure her afflictions 
without Him! Felecia Langford might debar 
her from the church but not from her dear 
Savior. She found it necessary each day to 
spend more and more her time in reading her 
Bible and in secret prayer to endure the things 
that had come so unexpectedly into her young 
life. Surely to this cloud there was no“silver 
lining; Mrs. Langford continued to sit in her 
pew each Sabbath, wearing the same sancti- 
monious expression on her contenance and 
the same nose spectacles. And when Merle 
was absent, which was a frequent occurrence 
of late, seating herself at the now almost di- 
lapidated organ and putting into practice her 


114 


“one and, two and, three and, four and,” so dis- 
tinctly that it was clearly audible to all pres- 
ent, she could see that each blow inflicted up- 
on Merle was having its effect. Thinner and 
thinner she was growing each day. The roses 
on her cheeks had all but faded away, leaving 
the bright light in her large, round eyes bright- 
er still. Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell were frequently 
holding consultations concerning their child’s 
declining health. But Aunt Texanna had her 
own thoughts and conceptions of her “baby.” 

One day Merle chose to walk out among 
the tall cotton-woods in the background of 
her home. Near the old-fashioned vine cov- 
ered well, she found Aunt Texanna with her 
chubby hands folded leisurely across her lap, 
vigorously rocking to and fro, humming softly 
to herself. Merle seated herself at the old 
darkey’s feet and rested her tired, aching head 
upon her lap. Then kindly asked: 

“Auntie, why are you always so happy?” 
The old family negro patted her, sympathetic- 


115 


ally, on her brow and tenderly replied: 

“Chile, yo’ old Auntie ain’t always happy 
when she sees her baby lookin’ pale like dis. 
Marser Leroy is cornin’ by’n by.’’ 

At this assertion Merle raised her head 
in surprise. “Why Aunt Texanna; how do you 
know that he is ever comingf’ 

"Cause I done been askin’ de good Lawd to 
send him back hyeh and he’s nevah dis’pinted 
dis ole niggah yit. When yo’ pa waz burnin’ 
up wid fever and about to die, long fo’ yo’ ma 
come to live hyeh, I asked de Lawd to make 
him get well. And ain’t he done it?” 

“Yes, Auntie,” was all Merle said. And 
the old darkey continued as to herselfi 

“Some day Marser Leroy’s cornin’ back and 
my baby’s going to be so happy. And dat 
hateful Missus Langford what holds a high 
head is sho gwine ter beg de Lawd to fo’give 
her some of dese times fo’ de way she’s abused 
dis hyeh chile. De Lawd will sho punish her 


116 


fo’ makin’ de innocent suffer. Dere’s One whut 
understands dis ole niggah’s heart. An’ purty 
soon her prayers gwine to come true.” 

Just then Merle raised her head and rub- 
bing her eyes, exclaimed: 

“Oh, Auntie, I’ve had such a wonderful 
dream!” 

Aunt Texanna, now aroused from her mus- 
ing, said. “Go ’long, baby, into de house. It’s 
time I’s gettin’ dinnah fo’ dat hungry pa ob 
yo’s.” 

As Merle started indoors she looked back 
over her shoulder and asked, “Won’t you make 
me some caramels. Auntie?” 

“Dat I will honey,” adding to herself, “fust 
time she’s asked me to make her anything 
special since de Lawd only knows when.” 

As the old servant arose from her chair 
rubbing her rheumatic limbs at the same time 
calling: 

“Madie, Madie Bryant, git yo’ black self 
to de kitchen. Whut yo’ been out dere cotin’ 
Mose fo’ any how?” 


117 


Madie had not served in the Maxwell 
home long. Of recent years it had become 
necessary for Aunt Texanna to have an assist- 
ant. And Madie answered the purpose, so far, 
fairly well. Though Texanna frequently re- 
minded her that she, herself, was Texanna 
Maxwell, and that she, Madie, was only Madie 
Bryant. 

However mischievous Madie might have 
been she loved her young mistress. And it 
was with a heart full of anticipation of joy 
and surprise for milady that she received a 
letter in the late afternoon mail addressed to 
her and postmarked “Mayfield.” As Madie laid 
the bulk of mail on the dinner table she care- 
fully placed this letter on top where it was 
plainly visible. Then skipped back to the 
kitchen singing as she went: 

“Miss Merle’s beau is not dead and rotten 
And his bones up a trottin'; 

Her head won’t be white as cotton 
For her grief is forgotten.” 

Texanna was just then too busy with her 


118 


"baby’s” caramels to notice or reprove her. 

A short time afterwards as the trio seated 
themselves at dinner, Merle, on seeing her let- 
ter, just as Madie had anticipated, seized it and 
with eager trembling hands severed the seal 
with the little pearl handled letter opener. 
She knew from her dream that soon she was 
to have good news, but was not expecting it 
quite so soon. After reading the letter she 
silently laid it on the table. The bright light 
that had a moment before adorned her sweet 
face vanished. Noticing that her daughter had 
finished her letter, Mrs. Maxwell asked in her 
usual, kind wav: 

“And what news you have you to-day, my 
dear?’ 

“Nothing, mother,” responded Merle, “just 
an invitation from Ida Harwood to attend her 
house-party next week.” 

Mrs. Maxwell, surprised at her child’s 
manner, exclaimed, “Nothing! An invitation to 


119 


spend a few days in Mayfield and from your 
dearest and most intimate girl friend? Of 
course you will accept.” 

Just then Mr. Maxwell, between bites of 
white bread and veal loaf, remarked with a 
twinkle in his eye: “I am sure it will not be 
necessary to insist much on her making a 
visit to Mayfield.” At this allusion she replied: 

“I do not really care to go, father.” Mr. and 
Mrs. Maxwell exchanged knowing glances. And 
after much persuasion she consented to go. 

The following few days were spent in mak- 
ing the necessary preparations. With a heavy 
heart she went to the dressmaker. Because 
her mother insisted that she have a new ev- 
ening gown of blue satin charmeuse combined 
with georgette, as becoming to her fair but 
now delicate complexion. Oh, why had she 
ever consented to go when she so much pre- 
ferred remaining at home in quietude? How 
could she go to Mayfield — his home? The place 


120 


that they had once planned for their home. 

The last desired article neatly packed and 
her toilet completed, she dismissed the ser> 
vant and stood for a few brief moments before 
her dressing table gazing intently upon the 
photograph in the little ivory frame. Then, as 
if speaking her thoughts aloud, said, “Dear 
Derris, auf wiedersehen (Farewell.)” Then af- 
ter bidding her parents an affectionate good- 
bye and speaking a kind word to each of the 
servants, stopping to speak a few words of 
comfort to Aunt Texanna, she was driven to 
the station by Mose. Upon dismissing him she 
gave a silver half dollar and directed him to 
hasten home, which he did, praising her all 
the while. Not a servant in the Maxwell 
home but who would willingly obey her slight* 
est command. 

Arriving at Mayfield, Merle was met at the 
station by her old school chum and friend, 
Ida Harwood, accompanied by several girl 


121 


friends, who gave her a hearty welcome to 
their circle and gladly numbered her with 
them. She was the last of the invited guests 
to arrive. And chattering merrily the girls 
turned in the direction of the Harwood’s 
beautiful home. Presently, Ida addressed 
Merle and asked her if she had recently been 
ill adding that she looked unusually pale. She 
responded that she felt quite as well as usual, 
only fatigued from the days journey. This 
put her more on her guard and she made a 
greater effort to enter into the spirit of the oc- 
casion. After a few minutes motoring they 
were in the hospitable home of their hostess. 

After consenting to her parents’ wishes of 
making this short visit Merle had debated in 
her mind if it would be right to pretend that 
she was happy and enjoying the hospitalities 
of her friend when she knew that she was 
not. But she had had no excuse to offer. The 


122 


world must never know that she had unre- 
servedly given her heart to Leroy and he had 
proved untrue. Ah! this attempt at pretense 
was hard for one who had never been any- 
thing but her natural, care-free sel£ 


123 


Chapter VIII. 


"^ERRIS Leroy rumaged through his 
^ ^ numerous collection of books. And 
selecting his favorate edition de 
luxe, seated himself for the evening and en- 
deavored to thus quiet his disturbed state of 
mind. But, try as he might, his thoughts 
were centered elsewhere. After rising and 
walking the length of his room several times, 
he stopped before a table heaped with pa- 
pers read and reserved for future reference. 
Others were various sample copies that he 
had not had time to look inside their covers. 
Paper after paper he tossed aside until he 
noticed a copy of the “Popularville Times.” 
Wondering who was so kind and thoughtful of 
him he again seated himself and began perus- 
ing its contents. What was that? Again he 


124 


read in the social column: 

“Miss Merle Maxwell entertained a child- 
hood schoolmate and friend (?) last evening. 
He and she had not met before since their 
school days.” 

The journal slipped from his hands un- 
heeded. His head was bent in an attitude of 
deep thought. She had not believed and ac- 
cepted his explanation. This schoolmate she 
had entertained was, no doubt, a chilhood 
sweetheart. And believing Leroy to be un- 
true she would turn to him for consolation in 
her disappointment and grief. He knew that 
she had once loved him with pure, unreserved 
love, such as one of her gentle nature could 
love. Would she detest him now, or did true 
love such as her’s ever turn to hate? He did 
not censure her if she should scorn him. Oh, 
the battle was hard and of long duration, but 
was finally fought. He must be content to 
live a lonely, solitary life. And there alone 
with God, he prayed that she, his first and on- 


125 


ly love, might be protected and guided to the 
path that leads to her happiness. 

With a tired, worn expression on his face, 
that had seemingly aged in a single evening, 
he rang the bell and ordered tea. Had Aman- 
da Ogilvie seen him on this occasion she 
should have been free from suspense. For 
the sleepless nights of planning and scheming 
had had the desired effect, save for the fact 
that it did not in the least, turn his thoughts 
toward her or any other. The thought of an- 
other ever to take her place in his heart 
was furthest away. Though Merle was for- 
ever lost to him, she would henceforth, be an 
example of purity and fidelity to him. 

More and more each day he became ab- 
sorbed in business affairs. Diligently perform- 
ing his office duties during the day while, 
evening after evening was spent in care- 
ful study. 

“Y es, 1 can do it,” he said, with an expres- 


126 


sion of determination, half aloud and half to 
himself, after an evening of unusually hard 
thinking. The plan of the invention was 
formed in his mind. Now to procure the nec- 
essary material and bring his conceptions to 
view. To accomplish this meant late hours 
of toil but it was worthy of the sacrifice. 
Others had discovered inventions. And by 
pejrseverence, he, too, could attain success. 

Months before this he had pmrchased a 
beautiful home site for the purpose of build- 
ing their home, near the chmch of her choice, 
because this would please Merle. And now 
his only recreation was to steal away there 
and cultivute and grow the fiowers and trees 
that he had planted for her. She had want- 
ed a fiower garden with narrow walks leading 
through it and a lawn shaded with beautiful 
trees. O, it was a pleasure to beautify this 
home according to her views. But he could 
not dare to go there to live without her. 


127 


Each tender flower reminded him of her puri- 
ty and gentleness. 

To him the Sabbath was the most trying 
of all the days. Not because it was the Sab- 
bath, no, indeed. But because his thoughts 
and hands were unoccupied by the material 
things of his daily routine of business affairs 
And, in deflance of all efforts to be content, 
his thoughts lingered on the happiness that 
might have been his. Such a trivial incident 
had separated them, but dear reader: 

Tis the little deeds of wrong 

Fanned into flames so bright. 

That blight the hearts of throngs 

And leaves the soul less light. 

Each Sabbath morning found him fulfill- 
ing his promise to Merle by occupying his pew 
in the church, usually accompanied by hi* 
mother. 

It will be remembered that in the begin- 
ning of this story, after the death of his fath- 


128 


er, his mother had gone to live with an only 
daughter, who, with her family, resided in 
Mayfield. Oak Lawn was a beautiful, spacious 
home and Leroy was not permitted to even 
suggest engaging a suit of rooms elsewhere. 
His sister’s family was composed of herself, 
husband and two bright eyed children. Fred- 
erick, Jr., a sturdy little fellow, and Idell, a 
rosy cheeked little girl. 

Dinner had been served and the house- 
hold had assembled in the blue drawing- 
room, a usual custom in the Worthington 
home, for a few hours before retiring to their 
respective rooms. Mrs. Worthington seated 
herself at the piano and softly played the ac- 
companiment while she sang in a clear, cul- 
tured voice a few favorite selections. While 
her husband stood by her side with a look of 
admiration on his face. Presently, their at- 
tention was drawn to the children by Idell’s 
peals of laughter. Master Freddie was strid- 


129 


ing back and forth across the room in a very 
pompous manner with head and shoulders 
thrown back and his Uncle Derris’s hat set on 
the back of his head. And with his father’s 
violin bow across his shoulder was making a 
fair attempt at imitating a marching soldier. 

Thinking that perhaps Annibel and 
Fred would enjoy an evening alone with their 
children, and because his mother needed the 
refreshing breezes, Leroy turned to her and 
asked in his kind, manly tone: 

“Mother, would you enjoy a stroll among 
the oaks this evening? It is not yet dusk and 
I think we should both enjoy the gentle 
breezes.” 

A smile played upon her sweet face as 
she replied: 

“My dear son, I love nature in all its beau* 
ty, and nothing would give me more pleasure 
than a short stroll with you, my child.” And 
placing her arm within his own he led her out 


130 


through the garden and on and on to a settee 
beneath a magnificent oak tree. Then mo- 
tioning her to sit down he took his seat be- 
side her, at the same time breaking the silence 
by speaking his thoughts aloud: 

“It is sweet to live, even in loneliness.” 

“Yes, dear son, life is sweet if we make it 
so. Our dear Savior has made it possible for 
all who will to be happy by trusting to Him 
every sorrow and disappointment. When we 
fail to pray and trust ’tis then life goes wrong. 
But why your loneliness, dear son, when you 
have everything before you — youth, a success- 
ful business career and, most of all. One to 
guide you day by day? You haven’t lost a 
dear companion and seen two sweet little 
babes laid to rest as I have done.” 

“No, mother,” Leroy said, “I have never ex- 
perienced the latter. Though I have lost 
through a few moments of folly, the dear one 
whom I had chosen for a life comrade. If I 


131 


had your faith I could hope some day to be 
content without her. I would willingly sacri- 
fice everything I have accumulated to only 
have her back.” 

His mother kindly interrogated him fur- 
then 

“Who is this one you speak of, and how 
did you come to lose her? I am sure you 
were never guilty of an indiscreet deed.” 

“You have never met her, mother,” he 
said. “I can only tell you that she is the pur- 
est and gentlest girl on earth. I met her at 
Popularville when I paid Latney a few day’s 
visit, you remember? I played a foolish joke 
on a boy friend soon after and he turned the 
jest on me in a manner that enveloped her. 
I wrote an explanation but she did not believe 
me.” 

“I know that she is sweet and fair,” his 
mother replied, “and surely there is an error 
somewhere. And, dear boy, let us pray and 


132 


trust that some day it will be eliminated.” 

He drew her mantle closer about her 
slender shoulders and said: 

“Sweet mother, I would have sought your 
counsel and kind ^words of consolation ere 
this, only for your own griefs.” 

“My heart is never too burdened with 
cares and sorrow to help share your troubles, 
my child.” 

Leroy took his mother in his strong arms 
and tenderly showered kisses upon her brow. 

“Come, mother, it is time you were in 
sweet dreamland. See, the moonbeams are 
playing through the branches of these great 
oaks.” 

And the two walked back happier than 
they had been for months. 

Now that Leroy had confided all to his 
dearest friend on earth his heart seemed 
lighter, and he worked, if possible, more dili- 
gently than before on his invention. It was 


133 


more difficult than he had thought but not 
for a moment did he entertain a thought of 
giving up. He realized that it would consume 
time and perhaps cost no small amount of 
money. But if it should be a success it would 
be a fortune and, vice versa, if it should be a 
failure — well his evenings were his own to 
spend as he elected. And he could afford to 
spend a reasonable amount of money in the 
attempt. Once coming to a decision he was 
not one to turn back. "Perseverence” had 
been his motto. Otherwise he could not have 
been thus far successful. 

Evening after evening he excused his 
presence in the drawing-room on plea of im- 
portant business matters. He had just enter- 
ed his room and settled himself to work, when 
a servant came up and announced “a gentle- 
man.” Leroy looked at the card a moment 
then said: 


134 


"Show him in, Williams. I will be down 
presently.” 

As he glanced at the bulk of unopened 
mail on his desk he thought of another eve- 
ning when he had had two gentlemen friends 
shown up to his room. As he went in to greet 
Mr. Norris he could not help reflecting upon 
the things that might have been but for that 
one memorable evening. 

The formal greeting over, Mr. Norris at 
once introduced the motive of his presence 
by asking: 

"You have heard the latest social news of 
Mayfield — the house party at the Harwood 
home?” 

"No,” responded Leroy, “I have not been 
advised of the intelligence. In fact my work 
demands so much of my time that my social 
pleasures are very limited. I should not have 
been so stupid had I been more observant of 
the social columns of the diurnals.” 


135 


"My dear Leroy,” observed Mr. Norris, "I 
fear you adhere to your business affairs too 
closely. Diligence is very commendable to 
one but all need recreation and diversion. 
One would think that ‘pleasures come when 
we seek them in the right spirit; or it may be 
opportunities and we accept them while they 
offer the time and things which make us hap- 
py.' You have, no doubt, received an invita- 
tion to dine with Miss Harwood and her 
young friends to-morrow at five-thirty 
o’clock?” 

’That I cannot answer,” replied Leroy, “I 
have not yet viewed to-day’s mail. The Har- 
wood’s are of a noble and respectable family, 
and will spare no pains in the comforts and 
pleasures of their guests, I am sure..” He 
stopped to order cigars and then continued: 
“My work ceases to be a duty but rather a 
pleasure. In previous years I was compelled 


136 


to cleave to duties and now it is preferable, I 
was not destined to be among the more fortu- 
nate who were' born with silver spoons in their 
mouths.” 

“My dear Leroy, it is not always fortunate 
to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth," 
rejoined Mr. Norris. “Our noblest and most 
worthy men are those who have labored in 
defiance of difficulties, conquering pride and 
finally reaching the purposed goal. We are 
disposed to think that the things most diffi- 
cult to attain afford the most pleasures. And 
you of all others deserve happiness and enjoy- 
ment beyond business concerns.” And going 
back to the object of his call continued: 
“Miss Harwood informed me that you should 
receive an invitation and of course you will 
accept?” 

Leroy humorously replied: 

“I appreciate the beautiful bouquets you 
have so lavishly conferred upon me. Howev- 


137 


er, I am afraid I must decline the invitation, 
since I have a business engagement for tomor- 
row evening.” 

“Come, Leroy,” insisted Mr. Norris, “accept 
just this once. Can the engagement not be 
deferred to another time?” 

“No,” answered Leroy, kindly but decis- 
ively. “It is of such a nature to require im- 
mediate consideration; and duty before pleas- 
ure you know.” 

Mr. Norris continued to urge: 

“Your esteemed presence will be greatly 
missed by all. Miss Harwood will be very 
much disappointed. It was she who request- 
ed me to insist on your going. You know Ida 
and I have been friends for some time?” 

“I am sorry indeed,” said Leroy, regretfully, 
“that circumstances are not such that I can 
be present on this especial occasion. Miss 
Harwood is indeed, a very' commendable 
young lady,” 


138 


“Leroy,” continued Mr. Norris, as he arose 
to go, “there is among the Harwood guests 
one of the fairest and most beautiful that 
eyes ever beheld. There is visible in the 
large, soft, brown eyes a sadness. And beyond 
the attempt to be light-hearted, can be de- 
tected in the sweet face, some hidden sorrow.” 

“I know,” responded Leroy, that Miss Har- 
wood would have for guests none other than 
those of noble and respectable birth. Give 
her my regards. I shall send apologies on the 
morrow.” 

And Mr. Norris made his departure. 

Leroy returned to his room and resumed 
his work. Tempus fugit, for those whose 
hands and thoughts are diligently occupied. 
The hours had extended far into the night ere 
he laid aside his work to retire, think you? No, 
to view his mail, and perceiving Miss Har- 
wood’s invitation wrote a reply. Then retired 
for a few hours of much needed sleep. 


139 


The following day he had been detained at 
his office until late in the afternoon and was 
hurrying on his way home to dinner — for six 
o’clock was the usual dinner hour in the Worth- 
ington home and when that hour arrived dinner 
was served, since the inmates of this home 
were as punctual to meals as to a business en- 
gagement — when he observed by the wayside a 
poor, unfortunate cripple. Some cruel, inhu- 
man being had trodden him down and had 
left him to grope his way alone. A pitiable 
picture indeed, was this forlorn, miserable 
creature in mean attire. Derris Leroy always 
had time to comfort the unfortunate. And 
stopping, spoke a few encouraging words, 
gave him the price of several night’s lodging 
and ordered him conveyed to a comfortable 
inn. Then hastened his footsteps homeward. 

Reaching home he was met at the door by 
Mrs. Worthington who exclaimed a bit re- 
provingly: 


140 


“Watever has kept you thus, my brother? 
Dinner has been served an hour since.” 

“I was detained both at the office and on 
the way home, sister,” returned Leroy kindly. 

“And Derris,” continued Mrs. Worthington, 
hurtfully, “Eloise Parker, my dearest girl 
chum, came over to spend the day with me 
and looked so disappointed when you failed 
to be present at dinner.” 

“I am sorry, indeed,” responded Leroy. “I 
meant no offense to Miss Parker, nor you, 
dear sister. I was detained on matters of im- 
portance.” 

“I promised Eloise the pleasure of your 
company home if she would remain the eve- 
ning. Was I right?” 

“Yes, I will accompany her home,” re- 
sponded Leroy, “as soon as I’ve had a bite to 
eat.” 

“You’re a dear good brother,” remarked 
Mrs. Worthington over her shoulder, as she 


141 


turned to go back to her neglected guest. 

Alter dinner had been served him, Leroy 
joined the family and Eloise Parker in the 
drawing-room. Presently Eloise arose to go. 
Leroy proposed motoring her home but his 
sister suggested that it was a propitious eve- 
ning for walking. To which Eloise readily 
agreed, and they set ouu. 

Mrs. Worthington little dreamed that her 
brother anticipated several hours of work in 
his room before retiring. He escorted Miss 
Parker home just as he would any of his sis- 
ter’s friends or any one who needed protec- 
tion. To Eloise it was the happiest walk that 
she had ever experienced. Her happiest mo- 
ments were when in his presence. Mrs. Worth- 
ington and Eloise had been intimate friends 
since their girlhood days. Annibell had met 
Cupid’s fate early, marrving “the best boy in 
the world’’ and leaving Eloise to “single bless- 
edness.” Nothing would have been more 
gratifying to Mrs. Worthington than to have 


142 


witnessed her brother’s marriage to Eloise. 
And her view of the idea? Eloise Parker was 
was one among many who would have wel- 
comed his attentions. Mrs. Worthington 
knew Eloise to be well born and possessor of a 
pure, sweet character, if not a beautiful face. 
And considered her an agreeable companion 
for her brother. Miss Parker remained un- 
married from choice, or, rather because Denis 
Leroy had not offered himself to her in mar- 
riage. If she did not possess a beautiful face 
her manners were pleasing and agreeable. 

On and on they walked, conversing on va- 
rious topics. Who were they about to meet? 
A group of merry girls and boys. As they pass- 
ed by Leroy raised his hat in due respect but 
almost let it fall in astonishment. Could the 
pale, sweet faced girl whose arm Norris held 
be Merle Maxwell? Leroy accompanied Eloise 
to her, home, then walked slowly back to the 
home of his sister. 


143 


Chapter IX, 


^ Harwood home was a scene of 

^ % If 

^ ^ pleasure and excitement this beau-' 

tiful evening. Bright lights could 
be seen from every window at an early hour, 
The doors of the spacious east parlor were 
thown open. Above in the dressing rooms 
were light-hearted girls making their toilets 
for the evening, chattering gaily all the while. 
Each girl’s hair had been dressed in the fash- 
ion most becoming to the individual. A beau- 
tiful scene, indeed, were these bright, happy- 
faced girls in their young womanhood, attired 
in lovely evening costumes. 

The excitement brought roses even to the 
cheeks of Merle Maxwell as they stood in a 


1144 


group, first praising their hostess, then utter- 
ing exclamations of joy at their anticipated 
pleasures of the evening. Ida had invited as 
many gentlemen friends as there were girls. 
They were to attend the Garden Theatre and 
see a photo drama of creation, earth from its 
beginning to the present time. Merle had en- 
joyed things of this nature when she was in 

school at Va., but Popular ville afforded, 

practically, no amusements. She was charm- 
ing indeed. Her wealth of hair brought back 
loosely from her fair face and done low on her 
neck. She would have been as light-hearted 
as the merriest, but for that one"empty, ach- 
ing void’ in her heart. 

"But the most exciting feature of the oc- 
casion,” exclaimed one of the group, "is that 
the young men are to choose ‘milady’ after 
their arrival,” 

“O, I hope Mr. Leroy choses me.” cried 
Lucy,” 


145 


“I was just thinking that of myself," sauci- 
ly replied Maud. 

“If this were leap year,” ventured Nell, “I 
should hasten down and ask the pleasure of 
his company ere you were aware of the fact.” 

Merle, alone, remained silent, but her 
cheeks had deepened to a crimson flush. 

“Come, girls,” said Ida, regretfully, “I am 
afraid we shall not be honored with Mr. Le- 
roy’s presence this evening. An important 
business engagement keeps him away.” 

“How unfortunate for us,” ejaculated the 
girls almost in one breath. 

Vera, the jolliest of the bunch and al- 
ways on the alert exclaimed: 

“O, girls, Mr. Norris next for me.” 

“Vera, you forget Ida,” responded Maud. 

“Of course Ida is his preference,” contin- 
ued Lucy. And Ida silently thought so too, 
but said aloud: 

“Oh, girls, I have an idea ! Lest I should 


146 


be entirely excluded,” and walking over to a 
table, picked up paper and pencil and asked 
Merle to write the names of each present, 
while she skipped away, returning presently 
with a neat little sewing basket in which she 
put the slips of paper and while shaking the 
basket vigorously, remarked: 

“We shall leave it all to fate.” 

“That is best of all,” agreed all the girls. 

Just then footsteps were heard on the 
paved walk below, and the girls descended to 
the east parlor where the young men await- 
ed them. 

After much hilarity over the drawing of 
the contents of the little basket the duode- 
pim set off for the Garden Theatre. Each 
were elated over their “destined fate.” Espe- 
cially Mr. Norris who had, much to his satis- 
faction, drawn Merle’s name. As for her she 
had no preference. The young men were all 
Ida’s friends and acquaintances. Her heart 


147 


held only one true love and that had been 
given another. The light-hearted youths 
were delighted with the entertainment, utter- 
ing exclamations of joy and surprise at the 
dramatis personae save one. All was invisible 
to Merle save the manly form of Derris Le- 
roy and a happy-faced girl walking by his 
side. Several times during the evening Mr. 
Norris was forced to repeat his remarks and 
questions, only to be answered in a listless 
tone. Oh, how she wished that she had never 
come to this place! How could she stay the 
few remaining days of her visit? 

The hour for retiring came as a welcome 
to her. The inmates of the Harwood home 
were in slumber save her and Ida. One little 
guessing the cause of the other’s restlessness, 
the two arose and throwing mantles over 
their shoulders, descended to the library with 
the intention of “reading themselves to sleep.” 


148 


One selected a beautiful edition of a favorite 
author; the other took up an old family bible. 
And settling themselves comfortably the two 
began reading. Since coming to Mayfield, 
Merle had neglected her daily reading and 
welcomed this opportunity to read a few pas- 
sages of the Book which had become such a 
comfort to her. A pleasing picture indeed 
were these two who were almost rivals in 
beauty. And yet, such a contrast between the 
soft, brown eyes which spoke volumes, the 
dark, brown hair now hanging loosely over 
her fair shoulders, clustering in curls around 
the sweet face of Merle Maxwell, and the al- 
most perfect brunette by her side, with dark 
but clear olive complexion, copious braids of 
very dark hair and eyes almost as dark. The 
even features on the round, full face were 
faultless. A scene fit to grace the canvas of 
the most skilled artist were these two girls as 
they sat with opened books in their hands un- 


149 


conscious of their loveliness. 

Presently, Ida closed her book and turn~ 
ing to her companion asked: 

“Do you find pleasure in the reading of 
those pages?” 

Merle looked up in surprise at the ques- 
tion. 

“Yes, I find much more pleasure and com- 
fort in this book than all others. To the 
weary, lonely and oppressed are sweet prom- 
ises of comfort and sheltering love. Dear Ida, 
have you never felt the need of One infinitely 
more superior?” 

“Yes," admitted Ida, “and I only wish I 
I knew that One as you do.” 

“You may by simply trusting all to Him,” 
continued Merle, “and believing implicitly in 
the words of this Book.” Then turning to the 
twenty-fourth verse of the fifth chapter of 
John read the sweet promise to those who 
hear His word and believe.” 


150 


“But my past wrongs?” Ida inquired earn- 
estly. Merle, as she turned to the seventh 
verse of the fifty-fifth chapter of Isaiah,said: 

“Repent of your sins, Ida, though they be 
great or small.” And again she read the word 
of God to the one she loved dearly as a sister. 
When she had finished, Ida continued to in- 
quire. 

“Will He pardon all of my carelessness and 
indifference towards Him?” 

“Yes, willingly,” replied Merle. “Dear Ida, 
your part is to repent, believe and confess 
Him.” Again she let the word of God speak 
for itself by pointing out the ninth and tenth 
verses of the tenth chapter of Romans. 

“I am sorry for the indifferent life I have 
lived, for my sins of commission and omis- 
sion,” continued Ida, “and I believe in the sav- 
ing power of Jesus but — 

“Just one more step,” pleaded Merle. 

“Accept the third verse of the twenty- 


151 


sixth chapter of Isaiah and trust.” She repeat- 
ed the verse slowly and forcibly. Then, un- 
mindful of her own distress, kneeled beside 
her loved one and asked God to bless her 
humble effort, andr “Help Ida to trust now.” 
Rising^she said: 

■‘Dear Ida. whosoever will may know this 
dear Savior.” Her eyes filling with tears of 
gratitude and thankfulness, Ida responded: 

“I know,” and a new light illumed her 
sweet face. 

“Merle,” continued Ida, “nothing can come 
to sever my love and friendship for you.” 

“Nor mine for you,” responded Merle, as she 
entwined her arm around her chum’s waist. 
And the two returned to their room at a very 
late hour. 

The few remaining days of the house- 
party Mr. Norris was constantly by Merle’s 
side. He walked with her in the garden, stood 
by her side when she sang, and when they 
motored to Club Lake it was he who first 


152 


asked her to share his seat. Unconsciously 
Merle was inflicting upon her dearest girl 
friend a similar picture to that one imprinted 
indelibly upon her memory on the evening 
that she had first attended the Garden Thea- 
tre party with Norris. For Ida could not fail 
to notice the expression of joy that lighted 
up his handsome face when in Merle’s pres- 
ence. That Ida and Mr. Norris were conge- 
nial friends Merle knew. But of her deep, 
pure love for him Ida had never spoken. With- 
out a murmur Ida noted the endearing looks 
bestowed upon Merle by Norris and silently 
watched him slipping away to one who could 
never love him as she had done. Ah, more 
than that, to one who could never entertain a 
thought beyond that of an esteemed friend. 
All this Merle knew and neither by word nor 
deed encouraged his attention. Could she 
have loved other than Derris Leroy it surely 
would have been Mr. Norris, who, if not given 


153 


so much to business concerns, was little less 
sagacious and altogether pleasing to look up- 
on. He was, no doubt, next to Leroy the most 
esteemed of all the young manhood of May- 
field. Ah, did Ida Harwood realize the true 
meaning of her words when she entered the 
covenant with Merle Maxwell that nothing 
could come to sever their ties of love and 
friendship? 


\ 


154 


Chapter X. 


« A X(.ALL night and until the early morn- 

V ZA . V 

O ^ itii hours had dawned Gaston Nor- 
ris walked the college campus. To- 
night the beauty of the magnificent oaks was 
as unheeded by him as the tender blades of 
grass that he was unconsciously trampling 
under foot. On these grounds he had met Ida 
and a dear, good friend she had been. Yes, 
he had admitted to himself that he had en- 
tertained a thought deeper than that of mere 
friendship. But these thoughts he had disclos- 
ed to no one. And now he was glad for she 
would, henceforth, be second in his heart. To 
woo and win Ida Harwood would be an honor 
to anyone. Why could he not shake off this 
indescribable feeling which had so suddenly 
changed his heart? Never before had he ex- 


155 


perienced a similar sensation. Could this fair 
queen, who had so completely filled his heart 
and thoughts recently, be the Merle Maxwell 
that his friend Leroy had spoken of? If so, 
had he a right to try to win her love? Ah, 
could he if he tried? Should he ever again 
look into those wonderful eyes and listen to 
her clear, sweet voice in song? 

All too soon the week of recreation and 
enjoyment in the Harwood home had come to 
an end. It was amid tears of love, friendship 
and regret»that the girls separated from their 
hostess. Vera wittily prophesied that next 
time Mr. Norris would draw her name, at 
which Maud gave her a reproving look. And 
Lucy and Nell declared the manifestation to 
be of a selfish motive. Merle was the last to 
bid her hostess goodby. And as she embrac- 
ed her, whispered gently: 

"Remember me in your prayers, dear Ida.” 

I beg the same of you,” earnestly respond- 


156 


ed Ida. And the two girls separated. 

Taking Ida’s arm, Gaston Norris accompa- 
nied her home from the station. For some 
moments they walked in silence. Ida was 
first to speak. 

“I wonder why Mr. Leroy did not attend my 
house party? He allows his work to consume 
entirely too much of his time.” 

“He purposed no offense whatever, Ida,” 
asserted Mr. Norris. 

“He didn’t intend to of course, Gaston, but 
I so much wanted him to meet my girl 
friends. And, vice versa, I was anxious for 
them, especially Merle, to meet him. But I 
know he is very diligent.” 

“Has Miss Merle Maxwell ever met Leroy. 
Ida?” 

“If so, I am not aware of the fact. Why 
should you suspect that they have met, Gas- 
ton?’’ 

“I only thought it probable.” And with 


157 


some relief Norris continued: “Miss Maxwell 
is indeed charming and refined. But why 
sometimes, the sad, thoughtful expression?" 

"That is easily explained,” responded Ida. 
“Rather a long story, but if you care to listen 
I shall acquaint you with the facts. Merle 
Maxwell is the dearest and fairest girl in the 
world." 

Just then they turned in at Ida’s home. 
They seated themselves on the shaded door- 
steps and Mr. Norris remarked: 

“Ida, I am an attentive listener.” 

“Gaston, I am connected with part of this 
story which I am about to relate — ” 

“Which makes it more interesting” finish- 
ed Norris. 

Ida, somewhat reassured continued: 

“Well, to begin at the beginning. Merle is 
well born.” 

“Her placid behavior bespeaks as much,” 
affirmed Norris. 

“Merle.” resumed Ida, “has been reared by 


158 


Christian parents. O, that my own dear 
mother had been spared me that I might 
have been taught the true way of life earlierl 
Merle has been taught fidelity to home and 
church since early childhood. She loves her 
church and delights in its work. But recently, 
and without cause, there has come one to op- 
pose her in her every effort; one, who, with 
her two or three co-schemers, has contrived 
by cruel words and deeds to drive her from 
the church.” 

"How dare they(” ejaculated Mr. Norris. 

“Is that not enough to crush one of her 
gentle nature? Is that not just cause for the 
sometimes thoughtful, deliberate expression? 
To us, who have lived indifferently to Deity, it 
seems a mere trifle. But to one who has lov- 
ed and served a work as Merle Maxwell has 
done, it is burdensome and grievous. She 
scarcely resembles the Merle Maxwell of our 
college days. Then, she was the happiest and 


159 


most care-free of all the girls. Gaston, this is 
confidentially. It was only after I had inter- 
rogated her concerning the great change in 
her manner that she acquainted me with 
these few facts. For she is not one to com- 
plain or censure.” 

“You may trust me, Ida,” said Norris, but I 
should like to see those contemptible charac- 
ters receive their just dues.” 

“Such persons do get their just dues soon- 
er or later, Gaston,” replied Ida. 

“But how are you connected with this oc- 
currence, Ida? 

“In the most serious way, Gaston. You 
know that my dear mother was taken from 
me while I was yet a mere child. And step- 
mothers, especially with children of their own, 
never have much time to spare for the wel- 
fare and training of their stepchildren. And, 
udtil recently, I have lived indifferent to God 


160 


and the things so sacred and reverenced by 
my dear, departed mother. Oh, the times 
that I have wished for some one to lead me 
to the right way of life! And not long since 
there came a time when I felt stealthily 
creeping into my life a— something that 
would call forth the aid of a Divine power. 
And Merle, a Divine messenger from Heaven, 
patiently, step by step, directed me to her 
Savior.” 

“Go on, Ida” persisted Norris. 

“It was when I recounted to her some of 
the obstacles in my path — for it had seemed 
to me that she had never had aught to mar 
her life and change the once rosy cheeked, 
care free Merle Maxwell to the pale faced girl 
that she now is — that she informed me of the 
cross she was called to bear.” 

“I should like to throttle the one who dar- 
ed to oppose her noble efforts!” again ejaculat- 
ed Mr. Norris. 

“In that case,” continued Ida, “you would 


161 


greatly displease Merle, for not one evil would 
she have inflicted upon her enemies. Oh, 
that I could bear my cross in that similitude !” 

“Ida.” said Mr. Norris, “it is the false pre- 
tenders to peity, and characters of such as 
you have just spoken, who are barring thous- 
ands from the church who would be a power 
in its work.” 

“Yes,” admitted Ida, "such persons do pre- 
vent the progress of the church, but even 
they should not prevent our serving the Crea- 
tor of the universe.” 

“You are right about that, too, Ida,” re- 
sponded Norris. “And I am truly glad that 
you have entered this new life. I hope to at- 
tempt it myself sometime.” 

“I wish you would, Gaston,” Ida said as 
he rose to go. And she went in to reflect on 
recent events. 

With window shades drawn close and 
lights burning low, Mr. Leroy worked on. 


162 


eventually coming to a pause. Certain 
necessary material must be procured 
ere the procedure of his work. He 
consulted his watch, only seven-thirty. Why 
the evening was no more than half spent, be- 
sides. Webb ScCompany always kept late hours 
in an evening. He would go down at once and 
order through them the necessities from the 
manufactory. And carefully putting aside his 
work went out. 

His business transacted, and his head 
bent low in meditation, he had turned his 
footsteps homeward, when to his surprise, he 
came upon Eloise Parker, Mr. Worthington 
and Annibel coming out of the Garden Thea- 
tre. 

“Derris,” exclaimed Mrs. Worthington, 
“where have you been keeping yourself this 
evening? We were just wishing for you. 
Eloise came over for the afternoon and I in- 


163 


sisted that she remain the evening, promising 
her an escort home.” 

“I shall accompany her home, Annibel,” 
replied her brother. 

“Mr. Leroy, I fear this is an imposition on 
you,” suggested Eiloise. 

■‘Not at all” responded Leroy. And taking 
her arm they started off. They had only gone 
a few paces when they met Mr. Norris, who 
asked: 

“How is the drama this evening?” 

And Leroy waited for Eloise to answer. 


164 


Chapter XI. 


^ (jr morning dawned clear and 

^ ^ ^ bright. The sun was rising over the 
eastern hills. And with it rose the 
inmates of the Maxwell home. Breakfast was 
over at an early hour. Early rising had long 
been an habitual custom in this house. 

"The way some folks sleep away the early 
morning hours,” remarked Uncle Tim “is dis- 
gusting.” 

Mrs. Maxwell, a smile playing over her 
sweet face, was quietly directing and assist- 
ing in the morning’s housework. 

The last dish polished and put away. 
Aunt Texanna donned a freshly starched and 
ironed checked apron, and tying a spotless 


165 


bandana on her head completed her toilet. 
Her “baby” had been gone a whole week and 
to-day she was coming home. The old darky 
mused to herself. She would cook her most 
“favor-ite” dishes for dinner. 

“Bless her heart.” 

"Wuz yo’ talkin’ to me,” called out Madie 
from an adjoining room where she was sweep- 
ing and dusting vigorously. 

“Jest min’ yo’ own bizziness atid let dis 
happy niggah alone, Madie Bryant,” retorted 
Texanna. 

After tying the bright red tie in a flour- 
ishing bow-knot, which he had recently pur- 
chased with the silver coin which Merle had 
given him on the morning of her departure, 
Mose led the ponies out to the carriage. He 
brushed and curried them as sleek as the 
as the sleekest. And after much ado over 
dusting and arranging the seat cushions, drove 
pompously off to the little village station. It 


166 


was impossible to perceive as to whom he 
most desired a display of his new tie, “Miss 
Merle” or Madie. To Mose it seemed that 
“that” train would never arrive. He believed 
that “Miss Merle’s” ponies could beat it. He’d 

i 

a notion to go and meet it. 

Just then the train pulled in, the enor- 
mous engine puffing and whistling. Mose 
retreated to the farthest side of the station 
platform and remained until it pulled out. 
Then, straightening out the bows of his much- 
ly prized tie, walked up to Merle with a broad 
smile on his face to take her baggage. In all 
earnestness Merle exclaimed: 

“I am so glad to see you, Mose.” Then 
suppressing the smile that for a moment 
adorned her sweet face, continued, “and 
where did you get your new tie?” 

With the smile overspreading his face, 
Mose responded as he untied the ponies: 

“Dis is a present from yo’self Miss Merle.” 


167 


"A present from me.Mose?” she exclaimed 
in surprise. 

“Yes’um, de money whut yo’ give me 
bought dis very tie, Miss Merle.” 

‘‘How nice,’’ acquiesced Merle. 

Soon they were at home. Merle ran up 
the gravel walk and into the open arms of her 
mother, who was standing in the door waiting 
to ^reet her. Uncle Tim said, as he patted 
her, affectionately, on the shoulden 

"We’ve been lonesome without our little 
girl.” 

From her parents she went to Texanna, 
who had advanced as far as the door. 

“Lor’, honey, yo’ don.t look much mended.” 

“I am well. Auntie,” reassured Merle as 
she ascended the steps to her room. 

Everything was just as she had left it. The 
little ivory frame which contained the like- 
ness of Leroy had not stirred from its resting 
place on the dressing table. Without remov- 


168 


ing hat or gloves she clasped it to her bosom 
‘‘Oh, had we never met to part in this 
way! Would that I had not lived to see the 
day you proved untrue to me! Yet Hove you. 
And would this moment sacrifice my life to 
know that you were not false to me and your 
promises. It has often been said that to part 
with loved ones in death is the hardest trial 
we have to endure. But O, to give them up in 
life— and perhaps to another — is worse than 
death. Ah, dear Derris, I could have better 
stood by your open grave and listened to the 
cold clods as they rolled in upon you! Then I 
would have known that you were waiting in a 
better world to welcome me, where we would 
never, never part. What have I to hope for 
here? Nothing but an ‘empty, aching void,' 
that nothing but your love can fill.” As she 
sat there alone, the forbidden tears coursed 
down her cheeks for the first time in all the 
long months of her trials. Oh, without him 


169 


life would be a lonely dreary march! Ah! 
would death be a welcome visitor at this mo- 
ment?” 

“Dear Derris, I love you better than you 
know,” she thought to herself as she tenderly 
placed the portrait again on the dressing ta- 
ble. 

The moments, unheeded, had passed swift- 
ly by. She had, unconsciously, lingered long 
with her thoughts. And removing hat and 
gloves, she bathed her tear stained face and 
went down stairs to her waiting mother. It 
semeed good to be at home. She would rath- 
er be there than at any place in the world. 
She was indeed grateful for a sweet home and 
loving parents. Did Merle Maxwell value 
these less because of her deep, unchanging 
love for Derris Leroy? No, indeed. But 
throbbing within every snow-white breast is a 
tender heartful of love for her mate. And 
when that love is blighted one never soars 
quite so high again. 


170 


Felecia Langford hurriedly washed and 
put away her "dinner” dishes. In her bustle 
and excitement she overturned a stew kettle 
of speckled peas, and dropped a dinner fork 
which was a sure indication that some one 
was coming, and a man, too. Had she drop- 
ped a dinner knife instead she would have de- 
clared that old Mrs. Pearson would come over 
with her knitting and stay the whole blessed 
evening. But since it was a fork — well, no 
telling, that long tongued preacher might turn 
in before she could get off to save her life. 
And she must see Amanda. 

While sleeking her hair back and doing it 
in a knot high on her head, she called to Wil- 
liam who was playing in the yard: 

“Come here this minute,William,and wash 
your face. There he is, hard-headed just like 
his daddy. You may remain at home with 
your daddy for being disobedient, William. 
And you may remain too, Willard. Verbenie, 


171 


you and Felecia tie on your bonnets and come 
along.” And away they went to Miss Ogil- 
vie’s. 

Scarcely had they entered the room and 
seated themselves ere Mrs. Langford began: 

“Merle Maxwell returned home to-day.” 

‘"Returned home! Where has she been?” 
inquired Miss Ogilvie in surprise. 

"Haven’t you heard when all the town is 
commenting on Merle Maxwell going to May- 
field to see Derris Leroy. She returned home 
only this morning. For didn't I see Mose drive 
by in the pony carriage like all fury and her 
perched up on the back seat as bold as you 
please.” 

“Well, I’ll say. Mrs. Langford, I hadn’t heard 
the report. It surely was an audacious deed.” 

“That it was. And you hadn’t heard the 
rumor. Why she was gone a whole week. It 
behooves girls to keep within the bounds of 


172 


propriety if they care to be free of suspicion,’ 
advised Mrs. Langford. 

“Yes,” assented Miss Ogilvie. 

“You know, Amanda, I was so scared old 
Mrs. Pearson would come over with her knit- 
ting before I could get off. And I was afraid 
you hadn’t heard about Merle Maxwell.” 

“I am glad that she, or nothing else pre- 
vented your coming, Mrs. Langford.” 

“Well, I am surprised that she didn’t, for 
she is always going where she is not wanted. 
And a comical conversant she is with her con- 
tinual ‘heerd, knowed, seed, tother’ and all the 
rest of her ungramatical phrases." 

Their loud peals of laughter prevented 
Miss Ogilvie and Mrs. Langford from hearing 
the gentle knock on the door. The two were 
unaware of another’s presence until little Fe- 
lecia came running into the room: 

“Some one has come. Mamma.” 

Miss Ogilvie arose, brushed the tears of 


173 


mirth from her eyes and went to the doOT. 
And throwing her hands up apparently in 
great joy, exclaimed: 

“Aunt Hester! if I can believe my eyes! 
Come in, Mrs. Pearson. I am so glad you have 
come. Mrs. Langford is here too.” Mrs. Lang- 
ford arose. 

“I am so glad to see you, Aunt Hester. 
Amanda and 1 were speaking of you since I 
came and wondering why you had not return- 
ed oxir last calls. I was wishing only this 
morning that you would bring your knitting 
and spend the afternoon with me, I love so 
much to have you in my home, and waited 
some time in hopes of your coming before 
starting over here.” 

“Well, I ain’t been feeling none too spry 
lately, Felecia.” replied Mrs. Pearson, “is why I 
ain’t been sooner, I had another spell of 
rheumatiz the tot her day.” 

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Pearson. Rheuma- 


174 




tism is so painful,” sympathized Mrs. Lang- 
ford. 

“It surely is,” added Miss Ogilvie'. 

“Verbenie, will you raise those window 
curtains so that Aunt Hester can see her knit- 
ting better?” 

“You needn’t go to so much trouble, Ver- 
benie. I can see all right, Mandie.” 

“It is no trouble at all. Aunt Hester,” as- 
sured Miss Ogilvie. 

“Mrs. Pearson, have you heard the report 
on Merle Maxwell?” ventured Mrs. Langford. 

“Why, no Felecia, what report? 

“Law, I thought everybody knew about 
her going to Mayfield to see Derris Leroy. 
And you haven’t heard it, when everybody is 
talking it? She stayed over a week. Return- 
ed just this morning.” 

“She waved to me this morning as she 
driv by my house,” said Mrs. Pearson. “And 
Felecia, I have knowed Merle Maxwell since 
she was just a tiny baby, and I don’t believe 


175 


she went to Mayfield to see Mr. Leroy. I ain’t 
heerd nothing agin her, and wouldn’t believe 
it if I did. Somebody is always trying to 
slander the innocent. And I ain’t going to be- 
lieve no rumors agin Merle Maxwell. I 
wouldn’t believe she had went to see Mr. Le- 
roy if she had not come home for a month.” 

“Aunt Hester,” soothed Miss Ogilvie, “this 
is only hearsay. Mrs. Langford merely heard 
this.” 

“O, of course we don’t believe it, Mrs. Pear- 
son,” rejoined Mrs, Langford, "but it does ap- 
pear suspicious from the fact that she went 
to Mayfield. Girls must remember that ‘act- 
ions speak louder than words! Of course we 
don’t believe a word of it and would be the 
last to slander her.” 

“Felecia, Merle may have went to May- 
field but she has a girl friend there for I have 
heerd her say as much. She may have saw 
Mr. Leroy while there.” 

“Very likely,” agreed Miss Ogilvie. 


176 


“But,’ continued Mrs. Pearson, “if all 
would do as well as Merle Maxwell this old 
world would be more peaceable.” 

“Yes,” agreed Miss Ogilvie. “But I wonder 
why she doesn’t attend church more regular- 
ly?” 

“She.no doubt, has a just cause. Mandie. 
Besidesdt is not our privilege to judge. The 
Lord ain’t turned that over to us yet. It is 
the Christian life lived on Sundays and every 
tother day of the week that counts, Mandie. 
And I believe Merle Maxwell lives a Christian 
life everyday, wherever she may be.” 

Miss Ogilvie, anxious to change the pres- 
ent topic, asked: 

“How is Mr. Pearson, Aunt Hester?” 

“Jest about the same as usual, Mandie. I 
left him and Brother Havis talking and 
slipped off over here, thinking it would do 
my rheumatiz a grain of good.” 

“Brother Havis certainly is a talker. In 


177 


fact I think he talks too much,” remarked 
Mrs. Langford. 

Aunt Hester Pearson folded her knitting 
and put it within the large patch pocket on 
her gingham apron; and drew on gloves knit- 
ed by her own hands; then rose tying her 
bonnet strings. 

■‘Don’t go so soon, Aunt Hester.” implored 
Miss Ogilvie. 

"Do spend the remainder of the afternoon 
with us, Mrs. Pearson,’’ insisted Mrs. Langford. 

“I must be agoin’. My light bread yeast 
will be riz and running over genst I get home.” 

"And you do bake such delicious bread,” 
admitted Miss Ogilvie. I shall expect another 
visit real soon, Aunt Hester.” 

“And I, too, shall expect you soon,” add- 
ed Mrs. Langford. 

“I will come when my rheumatiz gets 
better, Felecia. Both of you all come.” Out 
at the door, down the steps and away Aunt 


178 


Hester Pearson went limping home. 

Miss Ogilvie and Mrs. Langford resumed 
their seats. Scarcely had the door closed 
behind Mrs. Pearson ere Mrs. Langford began: 

“I hope when she does call on me that she 
leaves her knitting and ‘rheum atiz’ at 
home.” 

‘‘As well as her ‘tother, aint, heerd, genst’ 
and all the rest of her grammatical expres- 
sions, especially ‘MandieV’ finished Miss Ogil- 
vie. 

After which much laughter and several 
more similar remarks ensued. Then Mrs. 
Langford rose to make her departure after a 
few preliminary remarks. 

Not far had she to go ere Verbenie ex- 
claimed: 

“Oh, Mama, there comes Miss Merle!” 

“Well, what of it?” snapped her mother in 
a tone that silenced little Verbenie. Present- 
ly little Felecia ventured: 


179 


"Mama, why don’t you like Miss Merle?” 

“I don’t and that is sufficient, Felecia.” 

“I like her, mama. All the little girls 
do.’’: 

‘That will do, Felecia. You and Verbenie 
run on home,” commanded Mrs. Langford in a 
tone somewhat modulated. For just then 
she came face to face with Merle Maxwell, 
who, wishing to prove a friendly disposition, 
greeted her with a usual pleasant: 

‘‘How are you, Mrs. Langford?” 

‘‘1 am simply bored to death. Merle, having 
spent the afternoon with Amanda Ogilvie. 
Her company is so tiresome. She has such 
peculiar old maidish ways. I wonder why she 
has never married?’’ 

“I am sure that Miss Ogilvie remains un- 
married from choice, Mrs. Langford. For I be- 
lieve every girl can marry some one, if they 
choose to.” 

“O, of course someone, admitted” Mrs. 


180 






I was only out for a little stroll and really did 
not intend to venture so far.” 

‘‘You are quite a long ways from home 
and it is growing late too.” 

“Oh, I’ll be home ere the sun sheds its 
last ray of light,” Merle called back over her 
shoulder as she started briskly homeward. 

“Mama,” said Verbenie, “isn’t Miss Maxwell 
pretty?” 

“Verbenie, If I hear you repeat her name 
again to-day I shall punish you.” 

“Why, Mama?” interrogated little Felecis. 

“There! Take that and ask no more ques- 
tions,” scolded Mrs. Langford, as she slapped 
her youngest, leaving the print of her hand on 
the innocent child’s cheek. However, child- 
ren will be children. Soon the tears were 
dried and little Felecia’s troubles were 
evidently forgotten. For just then the trio 
turned in at the Langford home and little Fe- 
lecia again ventured: 

“Mama, everybody loves Miss Merle but 


182 


you don’t — ” She was prevented from finish- 
ing the sentence by another blow on the 
cheek which sent her crying into the house, 
followed by Verbenie and her mother. 

With much bustling, Mrs. Langford set 
about her evening chores. 

“Here, Verbenie, take this bucket and go 
out to the chicken house and bring in the 
eggs. And don’t you dare come in with one 
broken. Felecia, you carry in the kindling 
while I set supper. And going to the larder 
Mrs. Langford threw her hands up in exasper- 
ation. For not a speckled pea was left in the 
bowl ! Not even a crumb of pastry to be seen 
on the pie plate! And great horrors, in her 
pitcher of richest cream was a spotted frog 
churning and splashing cream in every di- 
rection with his four useful feet. Indignation, 
wrath, rage, fury and anger, all these do not 
express Mrs. Langford’s fit of animated pas- 
sion when she beheld the true state of events. 


183 


The climax came when Verbenie presented 
her mother with an eggless bucket. 

“Verbenie, where are those eggs?” 

“There are no eggs mama.” 

“Felecia, go to the milk shed and tell your 
daddy to bring William and Willard and 
come to me this instant,” stormed Mrs. Lang- 
ford. 

‘Those twins have always been the ag- 
gravation of my life. They are just their 
daddy over again. This is their revenge for 
being made to remain at home this after- 
noon. I’ll teach them and their daddy, too, a 
lesson. Where was Adam Langford that he 
could not see after those twins?" Just then 
Mr. Langford and sons made their appear- 
ance. 

“What is the row, Felecia?” meekly asked 
her better half in the doorway. 

"Just take a view of this larder, Adam 
Langford, if you want to know what the row 


184 


is. Nice boys you are raising. Were you 
blind and deaf that you couldn’t see and 
hear?” She pointed out the empty dishes 
and the pitcher of cream with the frog splash- 
ing with all his might. 

“Well, I declare, Felecia, I was reading the 
church paper and thought the boys were at 
play." 

“A nice Christian husband you are, that 
I can’t take an afternoon for calling on Aman- 
da Ogilvie, who has neither father or mother. 
And whose sisters and brothers have homes 
and loved ones of their own, leaving her to a 
solitary life save for a couple of trifling ser” 
vants.” 

“Miss Ogilvie prefers living alone, Felecia.” 

’’Well, I shouldn’t blame her if her nieces 
and nephews are as meddlesome as those 
twins.” Then turning to the boys: 

“Why are there no eggs to be found in the 
chicken house?” The boys exchanged glances, 
one waiting for the other to answer. 

“Answer your mother, boys,” commanded 


185 


their father. Willard, white with terror, look- 
ed first at his father then at his mother before 
replying: 

“We took them to the store and traded 
them for jaw-breakers.” 

“Nice sons you are,” commented their 
mother. “And a nice father you are, Adam 
Langford, that you can’t see after your own 
boys once while I make a neighborly call. A 
grand deacon in the church you are.” 

“Just as grand a deacon as you are ad ea- 
coness, Felecia,” retorted her husband for 
once. Adam Langford was accustomed to 
similar outbreaks from his wife. However, he 
was only human nature and once his anger 
aroused, a violent disturbance might well be 
expected, 

“To see you in church,” continued Mrs 
Langford, “one would think that you were an 
angel husband and father.” 

“And to see you in church, Felecia, no one 
would think that you would harm, by words 


186 


and deeds, one so innocent as Merle Maxwell.” 

“How dare you insult me, Adam Lang- 
ford?” Mrs. Langford stormed. 

“Ah! Felecia, if you think I know nothing 
of your plotting with Amanda Ogilvie, I am 
ready now to enlighten you with the fact 
that 1 am not so blind and deaf as you once 
supposed me to be.” 

There is no telling when or where the row 
would have ended, but just then Verbenie 
emerged from behind the window curtain 
whence she had retreated: 

“Mama, Brother Havis is coming in.” Mrs. 
Langford turned to the twins who had re- 
treated to the remotest corner of the room: 
“I’ll get you boys to-morrow. Adam will you 
please dispose of that pitcher of frogs and 
cream?” in quite a different tone. And after 
donning her Sabbath sanctimonious expres- 
sion, went to the door to greet brother Havis. 

“Papa,” then ventured little Felecia* 
“don’t you like Miss Merle?” 


187 


Chapter XII. 




^ Harwood’s little stepbrother 

^ ^ came running in with handfulls of 

green and orange colored circulars 
and thrust them into his stepsister’s lap. Ida 
picked one up and smoothing the wrinkles out 
read: 


“Wood Hill Home-talent Players 
Coming to Mayfield To-Night 
“VILLAGE FOLKS’’ 

A Domestic Drama in 
Four Acts 

Mayfield High School Auditorium 
To-Night 

Proceeds to go to the Church 
Admission 25 and 50c.’’ 

“Wood Hill,’’ mused Ida. O, yes, she had 
gone there with her father several times 


188 


when quite small. She remembered it to be 
a beautiful little country village. She used 
to enjoy driving in the free open air with her 
father before he brought the second Mrs. 
Harwood home. Those happy days were pass- 
ed save for their sweet memory. Of course 
she knew none of the “players” but she would 
like to attend, both because they were coming 
from Wood Hill and it would be amusing, no 
doubt. The circular bespoke as much. Again 
she read the announcement. And the pro- 
ceeds were to go to the church. She should 
go for that reason alone. Merle Maxwell 
would. But Fridays were Mr. Norris’ busiest 
days and no doubt his work would keep him 
late. Would he ask her to go if his work per- 
mitted?” 

“Ida, Ida," called a vuice from the door- 
way. Vera Whitworth had entered uncer- 
emoniously, and perceiving the circulars piled 
up in Ida’s lap laughed outright. 


189 


“Come in, Vera, I was just musing over 
these,” signifying the circulars. 

“It is concerning those that I stepped in. 
However, you seem to be well informed.” 

“Quite,” acquiesced Ida. 

“But what do you think of it?” 

“What do I think of it? Let’s go! I hap- 
pen to know a few of the characters in the 
play — see?" 

“O, of course you are really better inform- 
ed than I after all those,” said Ida again re- 
ferring to the circulars. 

“It does promise to break the monotony 
of the movies some doesn’t it?” 

“Listen, Ida, I must run home and make 
ready. You come by early. We must not 
fail to go.” 

“Good,” exclaimed Ida, and Vera was out 
at the door. 

“Mrs. Harwood,” said Ida, kindly, as she de- 
scended from the room, “I am going out to 


190 


spend an evening with Vera.” 

“Very well. Ida,” replied Mrs. Harwood 
somewhat indifferently. 

“Vera, who is the gentleman just quitting 
the stage?” asked Ida during the first act of 
the drama. 

“O, I don’t know. But I do know the one 
just entering. Look, Ida, isn’t he handsome?” 

"Yes,” agreed Ida. But she was more fa- 
vorably impressed with the other gentleman. 
Something peculiarly fascinating in his man- 
ner. Perhaps it was the large round eyes 
that were so impressive. She had always ad- 
mired large eyes. But no one could ever 
take Gaston’s place in her heart. Why think 
of him at all? Ah! if we could only see the 
things the future holds in store for us. Had 
Ida Harwood had a glimpse into her future 
her life might have been different. 

The last act had been rendered and the 
program for the evening ended. Paul Henry 
forced his way through the dense crowd to 


191 


the side of Vera Whitworth, and with him 
came Joe Murray. After formal introductions 
and a few preliminary remarks, the four walk- 
ed out into the beautiful moonlight to the 
home of Vera Whitworth. 

Ida asked Mr. Murray many questions con- 
cerning Wood Hill. He told her of the many 
improvements the past few years had wrought 
in the little village. The old mill had been 
replaced by a new and more modern one. A 
cotton gin had recently been erected. Be- 
sides these » the little place now boasted of 
two churches, a graded school, postofRce and 
stores. In glowing terms Joe Murray pictured 
to her his beautiful country home, with hun- 
dreds of acres of rich land leading up to the 
little village, the numerous groves of trees* 
the running springs of water, the broad acres 
of pasture with saddling horses, driving horses 
and work horses. All these and no one save 


192 


he with his father and mother to share them. 
Of course he had nothing to do but assist his 
father in superintending the farm. He had so 
much sympathy for the poor boys who were 
forced to labor for a support. He possessed 
the air and graces of a nobleman and in an 
impressive way expressed a desire to spend 
many more evenings with her as he wished 
her good evening. 

Joe Murray was highly elated with the 
present course of events. Quite fortunate for 
him to be numbered among the Wood Hill 
home talent players. Rather an honor he 
considered it. The proceeds might go to the 
church or sink to the bottom of the ocean so 
long as he was permitted to display his intel- 
lectual ability on the stage, thereby gaining 
public favor and popularity. He had asked 
Paul Henry the favor of an introduction to 
the round faced brunette and it had been 
granted. He would woo and win her. Thanks 


193 


to the credit of the Shoenburn Tailoring Com- 
pany for the snug, classy, pinch-back sport 
suit and corresponding accessories that now 
graced his handsome figure. For a diamond 
scarf pin glistening in his tie, he was indebted 
to an aunt who had married well. 

One evening a few weeks later Mr. Har- 
wood came in with a deep scrowl on his face 
and vigorously swinging his right arm, which 
signified that something had gone awry. He 
went through the evening meal scarcely ut- 
tering a sentence, only to reply kindly to Mrs* 
Harwood’s questions. Whatever his mood 
Mr. Harwood’s attitude toward his wife was 
ever kind and respectful. His meal finished 
he turned to his beautiful daughter: 

“Ida, I wish to speak to you in the library, 
presently.” 

“All right. Father,” and Ida immediately 
followed her father to the library, 

Mr. Harwood motioned her to be seated, 
then began: 


194 


“Ida, who is the person you were driving 
with this afternoon?” 

“Mr. Murray,” replied Ida. 

“Where is he from and how did you come 
to know him?” 

“He drives over from Wood Hill, father. 1 
met him the evening of the Wood Hill home- 
talent drama at the school auditorium. He 
was with Paul Henry, and you know, father, 
that the Henry’s are a preposesing people.” 

“Yes, Ida, the Henry’s are of respectable 
birth and deserving of praise. However, I am 
not favorably impressed with this Mr. Murray. 
I have seen him in town frequently, and his 
air is not at all commendable. And I request 
you to discourage his attention at once. Even 
Wood Hill does not regard him well. My 
child, you only know him as he appears, not as 
he really is. And more than this, Ida, I had 
presumed that you were betrothed to Mr. 
Norris.” 


195 


'■Not at all, father. I am sure Mr. Norris 
does not entertain a thought of me beyond 
that of a friend. Mr. Murray appears to be a 
gentleman. He ranks high in the social world 
and perhaps higher in financial concerns than 
does Mr. Norris. I think of Mr. Murray only as 
a friend. However, I shall not discourage his 
attention, father, until I am convinced of his 
vices.” 

This bold assertion from the lips of his 
own child did not excite Mr. Harwood’s anger 
But with eyes filling with unshed tears, and a 
slight quiver in his voice, said: 

“Ida, my child, as your sweet mother press- 
ed her dying pillow, I promised her with the 
help of the Supreme One to protect and shield 
our child from the lurking perils and dangers 
of life. And to teach her the way of a Chris- 
tian life. The latter promise I have not kept 
More and more each day it haunts my mem- 


196 


ory. For more each day you are growing in 
her likeness. You have been the image of 
your dear mother from infancy. And since 
you have grown to young womanhood it 
seems, sometimes, that she has come back to 
earth again to remind me of my promises to 
her. The few brief years spent with her were 
halcyon days for me. And my greatest de- 
sire is to see you happy as we two were. 
Riches, Ida, do not always bespeak happiness* 
Pure love is happiness. And money provides 
comforts and pleasures. I trust, my child, 
that you will never have cause to regret your 
decision on this evening.” And Mr. Harwood 
quitted the room more dejected than he had 
entered. 

Ida Harwood was, indeed, the likeness of 
her departed mother save for her quick pas- 
sionate disposition which she inherited from 
father. As the door closed behind her father, 
she burst into tears — bitter, remorseful tears. 


197 


Oh! why was she left motherless? Had it been 
her dear mother imparting advice to her she 
would have disclosed the fact that Mr. Norris 
was her only true love, and her lost hope of 
claiming him as her own. Ah! she was des- 
tined by fate to attempt to crush her love by 
accepting the attentions of one so unworthy 
of her. Her thoughts went back to another 
time when she had sat in the same room and 
in the same chair while Merle Maxwell di- 
rected her to the right way of life. Ah! could 
she brave the cruel realities of a cold, un- 
friendly world and remsin true to her Savior 
and loyal to her church. Merle Maxwell had 
endured persecutions from so-called Christ- 
ians — but she had never loved in vain. Did 
Ida Harwood guess aright? For Id^ to think 
was to act. Haste was her one besetting 
weakness. 

She drew up to the writing desk and 
wrote: 


198 


“My dearest Merle:— Girl, I am sitting in 
the library this evening. And my mind goes 
to you and the never-to-be-forgotten hours 
that you and I spent together here on anoth- 
er evening. So many things have happened 
since that sweet time. Gaston and I are the 
same congenial friends. He doesn’t call quite 
so often, however, he shall have cause to re- 
pent his indifference. For Merle, I have re- 
cently met one, Joe Murray, with the most 
fascinating, bewitching eyes! In fact, I feel 
myself slipping into a love drama in which 
he is the leading character. Of course you 
know how quickly I come to conclusions, and 
it may all blow over as serenely as the wind 
does daily. Merle, I can never repay you for 
your interest in my welfare and the dear en“ 
couraging words. I have always esteemed 
your friendship highly, but I never fully ap- 
preciated you until that memorable night. 
You spoke the very words that my heart 


199 


had been longing to hear for so long. Oh, had 
I your sweet, placid disposition! Only this 
evening father requested me to discourage 
Joe Murray’s attentions. I am sure father 
means well but no one understands my heart. 
Not even he — well — the outcome of all this we 
shall perceive. 

“Mr. Leroy’s sweet mother is in a state of 
declining health. Eloise Parker is often at 
Oak Lawn these days, probably to console 
Mrs. Worthington, or, to captivate Mr. Leroy, 
perhaps both. However, if she should suc- 
ceed in the latter she would surpass the ef- 
forts of numbers of others of the fair sex. To 
me, life is a dreary march. Merle, I would will- 
ingly sacrifice my own life’s happiness for 
your own sake. Such a friend to me as you 
are.' Lovingly, 

Ida Harwood.” 

Yes, Ida thought as she folded and ad- 
dressed the message to Merle Maxwell that 


200 


she would sacrifice her love and happiness 
for her dear friend. And for his sake too — for 
Gaston’s sake. That Merle Maxwell was his 
choice she knew. And she should be con- 
tented to know that these two, so dear to her, 
were happy. Since early girlhood days she 
had cared for Norris. But Ida Harwood pos- 
sessed a proud, independent nature as well as 
beauty. And the two should never guess 
that her heart was being crushed by the cold 
indifference of Gaston Norris. Even he should 
never know. We all must part with the dear 
ones in death and perhaps in life. 

On the wall in her room was hanging the 
portrait of her mother. Long and tenderly 
she gazed intently upon it. “Ah, to me, moth- 
er is but a sad, sweet memory, while to many 
others a living joy! O, mother, dear, the hope 
of one day being with you is recompense for 
every disappointment iil this life. Would that 
I were with you!” And in her dreams that 


201 


night she was with her motherf 

Some evenings later, Joe Murray, bedeck- 
ed in his Sunday best, the diamond scarf pin 
glistening in his silk shirt bosom, and, with the 
dignity of an earl, was ushered into the Har- 
wood east parlor, into the presence of Ida 
Harwood. Charming indeed was this beauti- 
ful flower in young womanhood. The folds of 
her pink satin evening gown graced her well 
developed but not too stout figure. A neck- 
lace of tinted pearls adorned her full neck. A 
jeweled bar pin of her mother’s which she al- 
ways wore completed her attire. She was fit 
to grace the throne of a queen. To some 
beauty is a blessing; to others a curse. 

Joe Murray crossed the room and seated 
himself by Ida’s side. And with a look of af- 
fectionate admiration, proclaimed: 

“Ida, I love you, and would sacrifice my 
life for your happiness. Your very image is 
continually before me. Will you go with me? 


202 


We can build a beautiful home and live a hap- 
py life in luxury and enjoyment. I love you 
as I can no other. Ida, I am bearing the truth 
to you. Oh, let us be sweethearts! Let us be 
husband and wife and live in each others 
love, for I love you better than you know. 
Will you?” 

“I cannot. Mr. Murray, I do not expect 
much happiness in this life.” 

“And why can you not accept me, Ida?” 
pleaded Joe Murray. 

“First, I do not love you, and — ” 

“What is it, Ida?” 

“My father objects, Joe.” 

“Your father ejects to me, Ida! If all the 
world scorned you, it would not lessen my 
love for you. Ida, will you not reconsider? I 
have spent wakeful hours thinking of you and 
the happiness our future holds for us if you 
will but go with me. You have a beautiful 
home, but I can offer one even better. And 


203 


more, I offer a heart full of love. Ah, think 
of the sad, lonely hours that must come to 
my weary heart when I am miles away. For 
Ida, if you refuse to be queen of my home, I 
cannot remain at Wood Hill longer.” Never 
more ardently or romantically did a lover 
plead, with tears — sentimental tears— cours- 
ing their way down his cheeks and on his silk 
shirt bosom, he kneeled before her. An<i with 
hands pressed to his heart, “Oh, Ida, that I 
could open my heart for you to view the love 
it contains for you! Will you not reconsider? 
Even if you do not love me now. will you not 
try one sweet day to return my love? Will 
you, Ida?” 

Ida was all but won, partly through sym- 
pathy. For though Ida Harwood possessed a 
quick, passionate temper, within her bosom 
beat a tender heart. The picture of a beauti- 
ful country home at Wood Hill — the kind Joe 
Murray had pictured — sounded so romantic. 
Ah! dear reader, romance has led many a poor 


204 


soul a cat’s life. Joe Murray looked into her 
eyes, pleadingly, while he waited for her to 
answer. At length she said: ^ 

“Joe, I do not love you now. I must have 
time to think.” 

“Oh, Ida, how long must I wait? When 
may I come for my answer?” 

“A week from this evening, Joe?” 

“And this week will be months to me. O, 
my dear friend, reconsider, that you and I 
may not have cause to regret after time has 
made it impossible to change. Do not let your 
father’s objection mar our happiness. I am 
bound to my people with bonds of love, just 
as you are to yours. But I would break even 
them for you. Our happiness is at stake. Let 
BO one come between us. If your people ob- 
ject to me, let my love for you atone for that. 
In time they will come to know and 'trust me. 
In the meantime I am willing to endure per- 
secution for your dear sake. In me you have 


205 


a friend who will never forsake you. Oh, how 
my heart longs and yearns for you!” 

“Joe, my father is all I have who is really 
interested in my welfare.” 

“Ida, do not say this. I would sacrifice my 
wealth, my life.for you. Just one week and I 
shall come for my answer. And I trust dear 
Ida, it will be in the affirmative.” 

“I will consider your words and regard 
them well, Joe.” And he held her hand af- 
fectionly for a moment as he bade her good 
evening. 

Ah! one hour in Gaston Norris’ presence 
brought more happiness to her than a life- 
time with Joe Murray, mused Ida, when left 
alone with her thoughts. And never would 
she go with him so long as there was a hope., 
of winning Norris. When that last hope was 
gone — well, Joe Murray with his untold wealth 
did seem better than life long loneliness. Be- 
sides. he was “pure dee swell,” and conversed 


206 


so fluently. His looks, too. were passable. 
In her heart she loved Gaston Norris. But 
should he not return that love, he should nev- 
er know that Joe Murray was second choice. 
Welhshe would see. 


207 


Chapter XIII. 


^»yy'Hj.ERLE Maxwell rose, tied on her 


m 


straw sombrero, for the sun was 


shining forcibly; picked up the book 
she had been reading and strolled down the 
path to a pond of fresh, running water, some 
quarter of a mile’s distance from her home. 
And seating herself comfortably under the 
shade of a magnificent magnolia, resumed her 
reading. Not long did she read, however, for 
soon she was disturbed by approaching foot- 
steps and the prattling of childish voices. 
Pitapat, pitapat, came the little footsteps, 
while more and more distinct sounded the 
childish voices. 

Presently, Verbenie and little Felecia 
Langford wound their way around the trees 


208 


and stood before Merle. 

“Miss Merle, will you please give us a 
drink from the spring?” asked Verbenie, dig- 
ging her bare toe into the ground. Then adding, 
“mama wouldn’t like for us to go near the 
spring.” 

“Of course,” responded Merle as she took 
the proffered cup. 

“But where is your mother? ’ 

“Oh, she is at home. Miss Merle. You 
know Miss Amanda is spending the day there, 
and mama never wants us about when Miss 
Amanda comes. She sent us out into the 
yard to play. And we thought it would be 
such fun to run over here and play until she 
goes home.” 

“Now,” suggested Merle after she had giv- 
en each a cool, refreshing drink of pure, spring 
water, “don’t you think you had better run 
home and play in the yard as your mother 
bade you?” 

“Miss Merle, mama don’t care. She never 


209 


cares where we go when Miss Amanda comes.” 

“Then suppose we sit down and rest for 
awhile,” again suggested Merle, as she resum- 
ed her former seat under the tree. 

Felecia seated herself by Merle’s side and 
looking straight into her kind, sweet face, ask- 
ed: 

“Miss Merle, do you like mama and Miss 
Amanda?” 

“Yes, Felecia, 1 try to love everyone.” 

“Even old Hester Pearson?” 

“Yes, I love Aunt Hester very much. But 
if I were you I should call her ‘Aunt Hester 
Pearson,’ Felecia.” 

“Mama calls her that. She says she is aw- 
ful. But I am going to call her ‘Aunt Hester’ 
like you. Miss Merle.” 

“Felecia,” said Merle, “Aunt Hester is a 
sweet, Christian character and worthy of re- 
spect.” 

“Miss Merle are all the folks mama and 


210 


Miss Amanda talk about Christians?” 

“I don’t know, I am sure, Felecia.” 

“But little Felecia Langford was not one 
to be silenced once she had begun, and con- 
tinued, “Aunt Hester is a Christian and you 
are. And Miss Merle, mama and Miss Aman- 
da say just lots of bad things about you." 

“I am sorry Felecia.’’ 

“I feel so sorry for you. Miss Merle,” sym- 
pathized Felecia, “and papa does too, some- 
times.” 

“He does?” 

“Yes, he did one time when we had been 
to Miss Amanda’s. And Aunt Hester was 
there too. And when we came home mama 
said lots of bad things about you. Papa and 
mama were quarreling about you when 
Brother Havis came, then they quit. Papa 
said that you was innocent and that mama 
and Miss Amanda was plottin’ about you. 
But me and Verbenie didn’t know what plot- 


211 


tin' meant. Do you know, Miss Merle?” 

“Yes, but let us suppose it is all right, Fe- 
lecia.” 

“Papa said it wasn’t all right. Miss Merle. 
But Mama and Miss Amanda talks bad about 
you all the time. Verbenie says that is why 
they don’t want us around ’cause we like you. 
But mama don’t want us to. Mama don’t 
want you to be organist, either,” continued 
Felecia who had, evidently, inherited her 
mother’s free flow of speech. 

"I am sure some one else would be better, 
Felecia.” 

“Mama says it is for the good of the church 
for you not to be organist, and that you 
can’t play, anyway. But papa thinks mama 
wants to play.” 

“Felecia, I am so sorry if I am a stum- 
bling block in or out of the church. I should 
much rather your mama would play and — ’’ 


212 


What was that? A scream and a splash of 
water! 

While little Felecia had been entertaining 
“Miss Merle,” Verbenie had ventured too near 
the spring. She was sinking for the third time 
into water five feet in depth when Merle Max- 
well seized her and pulled her to the shore. 
After much shaking and rubbing, Ver- 
benie regained her natural breathing. 
With her own dainty handkerchief Merle Max- 
well wiped the water from her face. Then, 
disrobing herself of a petticoat, she wrapped 
her in it as best she could and bade her and 
Felecia to go home as quickly as possible. 

Again Merle seated herself, for the ex- 
citement, together with the exertion, in res- 
cuing the drowning child, had left her pale 
and trembling. Her strength was all but ex- 
hausted. Verbenie was a very stout child. 

“I must again beg pardon for intrusion. 
Miss Merle,” came the words from the lips of 


213 


Mr. Topleitz as he came up with hat in hand. 
(It will be remembered that in the beginning 
of this story Mr. Topleitz was an intimate 
friend of Mr. Maxwell.) 

“Not at all, Mr. Topleitz,” came the startled 
reply from Merle. 

“Why, Miss Merle, have I frightened you?” 
Just at that instant Mr. Topleitz noticed her 
unusual paleness. 

“Oh. no, Mr. Topleitz, I— I am tired.” Then 
she related to him Verbenie’s misfortune. 

“Child, that was too much tor you. You 
have saved the child of the only enemy you 
have on earth. I met the scapegoats a few 
minutes gone and knew that they had been 
up to something.” 

“Mr. Topleitz, I would have exhausted my 
entire strength to have rescued her.” Ah, 
more than that. Merle Maxwell would have 
sacrificed her life for anot her. 

“You are right.my child. However, we all. 
know that Felecia Langford would be the 


214 


last to go to your assistance.” 

At the mention of Felecia Langford’s 
name the truths* that little Felecia had re- 
cently imparted to her. flashed vividly across 
her memory.” 

“Mr. Topleitz, I wish to offer my resigna- 
tion as church organist.” 

“And why, my child?” 

“I — I do not feel strong enough to continue. 
Some one else, Mrs. Langford, perhaps, would 
be more competent. She is much stronger 
than I.” 

“Of course, child, if you do not feel able to 
continue we shouldn’t impose on you. For 
you have been faithful and loyal to your 
church as well as patient and enduring. We 
can’t hope to find one better qualified. But 
for your given reason alone the church will 
consider your resignation. Is this your sole 
cause?” 

Merle had not expected to be interrogated 
in this way. And with eyes rivited on the 
pebbles that she was, unconsciously, toying 
with a nervous hand, stammered out the re- 
ply: 


213 


"Ye— yes” 

Ah, do you think it was hard for Merle 
Maxwell to tell a falsehood? However, Mr. 
Topleitz was several years her senior and 
thought he understood the meaning of her 
affirmative answer. 

■‘Miss Merle," said Mr. Topleitz, “I believe 
there are those whose thoughts are never 
elevated beyond injuring some innocent one. 
They pretend to be God’s children seeking af- 
ter his own heart. But I believe that they 
have never been baptized into ♦the lake of 
pure love that never falters! True Christians, 
Merle, have other missions in this life than 
criticising others. Their mission is quite a 
different one. If only the cruel, fault - finding 
words were turned into words of encour- 
agement! A word of criticism" like a snow- 
ball, when once startedf gathers as it goes:’ 
There are those who are never content until 
they are feasting on the apparent failure, both 
intellectually and spiritually, of one of their 
superiors. My dear child, don’t let the unjust, 
heartless criticisms of so-called Christians de- 


216 


bar you from your church work and your mis- 
sion in life." 

“My mission, Mr. Topleitz,” said Merle, “is 
to live for God and others. But it seems that 
in the latter I have failed. My work in the 
church has not been worthy of praise and 
commendation." 

“My child, we all know that your efforts 
have not been to obtain the applause of any. 
After all.it is not the work approved by man 
and the church, but by God that counts." 

“Yes,” acquiesced Merle, as she rose to go. 

“I must return home, Mr. Topleitz. Will 
YOU go?" 

“Yes, I was just on my way there to spend 
a few hours with your father.” The former 
conversation continued until they had reach- 
ed the end of their short walk. And Mr. Top- 
leitz was ushered into the presence of Uncle 
Tim. Do you wonder that Merle Maxwell de- 
cided on the quiet Christian life, doing the lit- 
tle deeds of love that her hands found daily to 
do, in preference to the active church work 
she had loved so dearly? She should not have 
made this decision because of a long-tongued 


217 


woman, contend our preachers. Neither do I 
insist that she should have. Was Merle Max- 
well more preternatural than we? Would you 
have endured more than she from the lips of 
Felecia Langford? Of course she should not 
have heeded Felecia Langford, neither Aman- 
da Ogilvie, nor their inhuman criticisms. No 
more should she have permitted her love for 
Derris Leroy to weigh so heavily upon her 
mind. We should not permit these, but we 
do, or Merle Maxwell did. If we all did just 
the right thing this old world would be heav- 
en. Ah, do you wonder that this gentle creat- 
ure, Merle Maxwell, had grown tired of— of 
life itself? 

Having excused herself from the presence 
of Mr. Topleitz and her father, she sought the 
quiet solitude of her room. There she dwelt 
long upon the words of little Felecia Lanford. 
Perhaps after all efforts her church work had 
not been efficient. But not one word of en- 
couragement had she received. More than 
this. Sabbath after Sabbath Merle Maxwell 
had entered the little church and her 
work conscious that there were those, though 


218 


few in number, who were eagerly searching 
for her mistakes. When we search for faults 
and errors we are sure to find them. Felecia 
Langford did. Enough to gloat over for days. 
She, Merle Maxwell, would resign all to Mrs. 
Langford and Miss Ogilvie. And in her kind- 
heartedness she trusted that they should nev- 
er be humiliated and treated as she had been 
treated by them. Perhaps Mrs. Langford was 
right, that it was for the good of the church 
that she wished her to discontinue her active 
work. She would remain true to her Savior. 
And in her humble way she would do the lit- 
tle deeds of love that her hands found daily, 
A gentle knock sounded on the door to dis- 
turb her reverie, 

“Come in, mother.” 

The door pushed softly open and the black 
kinky head of Aunt Texanna peered in. 

“It’s not your mother. Miss Merle, It’s yo’ 
ole black mammy what’s come to remind yo’ 
dat it’s six o’clock and dinner is waitin’ to be 
served,” 

“Thank you. Auntie, I had not noticed that 
it was dinner hour.” 


219 


“I knowed yo’ didn’t, honey.” 

“Thank you, Auntie.” 

Merle followed Texanna to the dining room 
where Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell and Mr. Topleitz 
were seated at the dining table awaiting her. 

“You can never guess the surprise in store 
for you, Miss Merle,” greeted Mr. Topleitz, as 
she seated herself at the table. 

“Oh, what can it be!” came the forced ex- 
clamation from the lips of Merle Maxwell. 

“Your father,” responded gentle Mrs. Max- 
well, “and Mr. Topleitz, have planned a visit 
for you and me.” 

“How very kind of them. But whom and 
where are we to visit?” 

“Our only sister and aunt at Camden, New 
Jersey. Just think of it. Merle, I havn’t seen 
her for years and I have wanted so much to 
visit there.” 

“You and I go there alone, mother?” object- 
ed Merle. 

“Of course not,” reassured Mr. Maxwell. 
That has all been settled. Mr. Topleitz and I 
shall accompany you, returning within a 


220 


week. He, too, has relatives at Camden.” 

“But the servants, father?” 

“They shall have a holiday. Texanna is 
very much in need of rest; the others have 
been faithful and obedient.” 

“Yes,” asserted Merle, and perceiving her 
every excuse defeated, asked: 

“When are we to go?” 

"One week from to-day,” informed her 
father. 

“And how long are we to remain, mother?” 

“Until the roses are blooming again in 
your cheeks,” laughingly suggested Mr. Top- 
leitz. 

“You are to remain until your mother and 
you have satisfactorily made your visit, child,” 
assured Mr. Maxwell. 

What could she do but go, once her par- 
ents had made the decision? After all, what 
mattered where her weary days were spent? 
That this had all been planned mainly on her 
own account she doubted not, and appreciat- 
ed the love and kind intentions of her par- 
ents and Mr. Topleitz. But, oh, if she could 
only think of a reason or excuse for declining. 


221 


But there was none and go she must. 

The following days were spent in making 
preparations. In making ready for a long • 
journey there are many things to do and con" 
sider, especially when the entire household is 
to have a holiday. Mr. Topleitz had looked 
volumes when Mrs. Maxwell insisted that they 
have a whole week for preparations. As for 
him he could be ready on the morrow. Of all 
the Maxwell household none were so highly 
elated over the promised holiday as were Ma- 
die Bryant and Mose Anderson. While others 
were planning, they, too, were planning. 

Merle had ordered the pony carriage and 
was well on her way to Aunt Hester Pear- 
son’s who had had a recent attack of rheu- 
matiz.” On the spacious seat beside her were 
beautiful bouquets of selected flowers. In her 
hands she carried a bowl of blackberry jam, a 
favorite of Aunt Hester’s. 

She observed the unusual restlessness and 
apparent uneasiness of Mose. His huge feet 
were shifted first to the right and then to the 
left. They were crossed and uncrossed not 
less than a dozen times. For the hundredth 


222 


time his lips parted as if in an effort to speak 
And for the hundredth time the words chok- 
ed in his throat. At length, he made a more 
determined effort and turning abruptly in his 
seat, stammered forth: 

“Miss — Miss Merle, ain’t I’ve tried to be a 
’bedient servant?’’ 

■‘Of course you have, Mose. You have not 
only tried but you have been a very faithful 
and obedient servant. Has anybody dared to 
say that you have not been?” 

‘ N’om.’’ The ice broken he continued with 
more ease, “Miss Merle, I likes yo’ and yo’ ma 
and pa.” Horrors! Was he actually going to 
propose then and there? 

“I am so glad that you like me, Mose. I 
wish that everyone did. Mother and father 
deserve and appreciate the good will of all.” 

Mose, feeling more and more composed, 
ventured nearer the thought dearest to him 
just now. 

“Miss Merle, will yo’ ax yo’ ma to let Madie 
look after de chickens, turkeys and poultry, 
while yo’ all is gone to dat place in Jersey? 
Marster Maxwell done gi’e me liberty to stay 
right hyeh and do de chores and tend to dese 


223 


two black beauties jest like I’ve always done.” 

“Of course I will intercede for you, Mose.” 

“Mam?” 

“I said, ‘of course I would ask mother to 
give Madie permission to remain.’ We thought 
she would be delighted with the permission of 
a holiday.” 

“She sho is.” Then nervously winding the 
lines around his hand, “We’se gwine to marry. 
Miss Merle.” 

“You are!” exclaimed Merle with a sup- 
pressed smile on her face as she lighted in 
front of Aunt Hester’s door. 

“You may wait, Mose,” she called over her 
shoulders as she ran up the steps. 

Aunt Hester Pearson’s-rheumatiz” was in- 
deed worse, but, oh, how her face lighted up 
with joy when she beheld the beautiful flow- 
ers and bowl of jam in Merle’s hands. Tears 
of love mingled with words of appreciation as 
the saintly old soul accepted the gifts and 
kind, cheerful words of comfort and consola- 
tion. She hobbled to the door and watched 
Merle, as she decended to her waiting car- 
riage, with a “God bless you, child, and make 


224 


you as happy as you have made others.” 

Merle ordered Mose to drive back through 
the village. And when she dismissed him at 
her own gate she held up a parcel, “Mose, this 
is your wedding present.” 

“I ain’t done married yit. Miss Merle.” 

“Oh, of course not, but this is to wear on 
your wedding day.” 

“Yes’um, I sho’ will wear it, Miss Merle.” 
Not until Mose was in his own, small cabin, 
that Madie was soon to share with him, did he 
open the parcel. The most beautiful silk tie 
that eyes ever beheld, he thought, “with red 
roses all ’broidered in it. Wouldn’t Madie be 
proud of him!” 

Straight to her room Merle went. And 
from a collection of discarded but beautiful 
costumes selected a dark, red velvet. Then, 
decidedly, replaced it. She had worn that on 
the evening of her betrothal to Derris Leroy 
It brought forth sweet, bitter memories. She 
would never, never part with it. Another se- 
lection and she ran down to the kitchen 
where Madie was assisting Aunt Texanna in 
baking. 

She presented the dress to her, suggesting 


225 


that she remodel it by lengthening the waist 
belt and also the skirt. Madie’s eyes were 
rolled in heavenly ecstacy. 

"Thank you. Miss Merle. I’ll weah this on 
special ’casions.” How it glc.ddened Merle 
Maxwell to know others were happy, even 
these two. Just a few explanatory words 
with her mother and it was agreed that Ma- 
die remain there and look after the chickens, 
turkeys, and poultry." 

The day for the Maxwell’s departure 
dawned. Aunt Texanna was,apparently, the 
sole unhappy occupant of the household. Ev- 
erything was in readiness. The trunks had 
been sent to the station. Mose, with “Happy” 
as his middle name, waited at the front to 
drive them to the station. Merle was last to 
quit the house. And when she started down 
the gravel walk, retreated her steps to Aunt 
Texanna, who was standing in the doorway 
watching her “baby." 

“I would much rather stay. Auntie.” 

“Go long honey, it may help yo.’” But the 
worthy old servant doubtfully shook her 
kinky head. 

On that self same day, in a little cabin 
church not far from the village of Popularville, 
a wedding was solemnized. 


226 


Chapter XIV. 




^ DA Harwood stood before her mirror 


^ doing her dark hair 


— coils on a weil shaped head 


in beautiful 
One 

week had flitted by since the proposal of Joe 
Murray, and this evening he was coming for 
her answer. Perhaps he would bring the sol- 
itaire to place upon her betrothal Anger. She 
truly hoped not for her answer would be de- 
cidedly in the negative. A something in her 
inner self prompted this decision. That Gas- 
ton Norris was slipping out of her life — and 
heart, she was conscious. Yet, the promise of 
his true, loyal friendship was dearer to her 
than the love of all the Joe Murrays. In her 
mind she framed the picture of herself as Joe 
Murrays “queen” with her heart daily longing 
and yearning for one kind, loving word from 
another. Even the golden wealth of the Mur- 
rays could not compensate her for this. That 
her love for Gaston Norris was more endear- 


227 


ing than he had dreamed of she doubted not. 
Yet, there was hope if she but patiently wait- 
ed. Perhaps, after all, her father was right. 
Her face flushed crimson as she felt shame 
for hasty, decisive reply which she had greet- 
ed her father a few evenings previous. 

She hurriedly dashed the tears from her 
eyes with the delicately perfumed handker- 
chief lying on her dresser table as her step- 
mother entered unceremonously. 

“Ida, that Joe Murray is waiting in the 
east parlor.” 

“Send word that I shall be down present- 
ly. Thank you, Mrs. Harwood.” Without a 
word Mrs. Harwood made her exit through the 
door. And in no pleasant tone sent the mes- 
sage down. 

Returning to the room she sent the door 
to with an unfriendly bang. Then turning 
upon Ida a look of disgust and repugnance, 
blared forth: 

“Ida, 1 wonder that you tolerate the at- 
tentions of this man against your father’s and 
my wishes. Isn’t it enough that we clothe 
and feed and shelter you without you bringing 


228 


this worthless being into the home and — and 
into the family?” At this unjust reproof and 
accusation, Ida Harwood’s whole being filled 
with rebellious resentment, crushing out the 
tender feeling that had a moment before filled 
her heart. 

“Mrs. Harwood.I have brought no one into 
the family. Neither have 1 brought disgrace 
upon you or yours. Father is quite capable of 
supporting me. At least I shall not call for 
the disbursement of your individual posses- 
sions. Neither is Mr. Murray as worthless as 
you have concluded. Your and father’s pos- 
sessions combined do not compare with those 
of the Murrays.” 

“So says Joe Murray,” retorted Mrs. Har- 
wood. 

“And Joe Murray’s assertions are as true 
as your’s,Mrs. Harwood.” 

“Very probable” sneered her stepmother, 
“however public sentiment is not in his favor.” 

“Neither did public sentiment favor my 
father’s second marriage.” 

“How dare you speak thus, Ida Harwood ! 
I shall speak to your father of this.” 

“Just as you dared to intrude into my pri- 
vacy, Mrs. Harwood,” replied Ida as she brush- 


229 


ed past her stepmother and went down into 
the presence of Joe Murray. 

He greeted her with a graceful bow and 
much ado. The king upon his throne could 
not have been more eloquent in speech or 
manner. Scarcely were their greetings over 
ere Joe Murray, for the second time, pleaded 
his cause. 

“Come be my wife and life partner.” he 
pleaded. “Oh, do not decline my offer and 
send me away to face a frowning world alone! 
Trust your future happiness to me, one whom 
you may depend upon for every wish. Only 
go with me and I will win your love by grant- 
ing every wish a heart could desire.” With 
arms outstretched he pleaded on. Such ro- 
mantic words never fell from human lips. 
“Oh, will you not come with me and be my 
village queen?” With lips drawn closely to- 
gether, she answered: 

“I will.” 

The ashen hue of Ida Harwood’s face was 
mistaken for solemnity of the occasion. And 
Joe Murray seized both her hands in his. 

"When?” he eagerly asked. 

“At once, Joe.” 

“I did not bring the ring this evening, Ida. 


230 


I thought perhaps best not to lavish gifts up- 
on you before our marriage, for fear that some 
might conclude that I was buying your love 
with costly presents. Only be mine and you 
may have the pleasure of selecting as many 
diamonds and tinted pearls as you choose.” 

Ida Harwood shuddered, whether at the 
doubt that flitted across her memory or the 
touch of his hand on hers, I know not. Or. 
perhaps, it was because of the step she was 
about to take. Ah! she wanted no time for 
reflection, and answered firmly: 

“I would rather not wait for the ring, Joe. 
It is best as you say. Besides, I prefer making 
my own selections,” she added with a forced 
smile and, perhaps, a tone somewhat more 
befitting to the time and occasion. 

“You are a precious jewel, Ida, my own. 
My carriage and ponies are waiting. Shall we 
go now?” 

“Yes, I am quite ready.” 

Ah! Ida Harwood had months of leisure in 
which to repent of this hasty step! Joe Mur- 
ray could have screamed with exultant joy 
over his victory. Once the ceremony said, the 
vows of fidelity made to him and God, what 


231 


mattered then? 

“Ida Harwood eloped with Joe Murray of 
Wood Hill!" was the startled exclamation 
from the lips of all Mayfield. If there was one 
more surprised than all others it was Gaston 
Norris. How he missed her congenial friend- 
ship he had so long shared. That she should 
be swept away from him and Mayfield in this 
manner was inconceivable to him. Why, he 
had sought her counsel in every petty vexa- 
tion! 

A spirit of gloom seemed to overspread 
the most part of Mayfield, especially in the 
Harwood home. Not a word had Mr. Har- 
wood for any. His meals were forced down in 
silence. He was often seen coming up the 
street or walking in his own yard with his 
right shoulder drooping several degrees below 
its normal position and with head bent de- 
jectedly. As for Mrs. Harwood — well, Ida was 
out of her way. One less for husband to sup- 
port. She had gone against their wishes and 
she must need endure the consequences. Joe 
Murray might be good or he might be bad or 
he might be neither; however, her responsibil- 
ities of Ida were ended. And it did take so 


232 


much for the support of girls. She was glad 
that both hers were boys. She did hope Ida’s 
elopement would not affect her, Mrs. Har- 
wood, in the social circle. Truly, this was her 
regret. That Mrs. Harwood had spoken the 
harsh words that brought about Ida’s decis- 
ion was incomprehensible to Mayfield. Had 
Mr. Harwood the slightest suspicion of his 
child’s ill treatment in her home, things would 
have taken on a serious aspect. For though 
it was his privilege to love and reverence his 
wife, it was also his duty to shield and pro- 
tect his child. 

The Worthington home was clothed in 
silence. The inmates were lost in slumber 
save Derris Leroy, who stepped back from his 
table and gazed upon his work critically. At 
last it was completed and so far a success 
save for the perfection of one small revolving 
wheel. He must needs consult a civil engi- 
neer. “Mr. Norris, perhaps, was more compe- 
tent than the others,” he determined after 
several minutes of careful deliberation. 

The late hours of toil and study were tell- 
ing on his young, boyish face. Tiny crow’s feet 
were visible about the eyes. The lines around 


233 


his mouth, too, were deepening. And the ex- 
pression on his handsome face was a bit se- 
rious for one of his age. Time after time he 
had promised himself much sleep and relax- 
ation of the mind as soon as his inven- 
tion should be completed. But tonight he 
was alive with hope and expectation. It was 
almost impossible for him to compose him- 
self to wait for the dawning of another day to 
consult a civil engineer. Women are not the 
only creatures in the world who become ex- 
cited in a moment of uncertainty which is 
mingled with desirous anticipations. 

After consulting with his attorneys and 
Mr. Norris it was deemed necessary that Le- 
roy should go at once to Camden, New Jer- 
sey, for an interview with the factory concern- 
ing the deficient wheel. “An impossibility,’ 
he declared, “for him to go just at this time. 
Responsibilities at the office and the declining 
health of his mother would not permit his 
leave at this particular time.’’ He insisted up* 
on Mr. Norris going in his stead. At the same 
time volunteering to defray all expenses and, 
also,an ample recompense for consumed time 
and trouble. It was agreed that Mr. Norris 


234 


start for Camden, New Jersey, the following 
morning. 

Accordingly he reached the end of his 
predetermined journey late in the afternoon 
of the third day. Alighting from the car and 
ordering his bagage to respectable but moder- 
ate rooms — for he anticipated several days 
sojourn in the city — he decided to view a por- 
tien of the city before going to his evening 
meal. He stood on Trenton street admiring 
the handsome tonneau passing through the 
street. It slowed down and came to a stand- 
still on the opposite side. The figure alighting 
resembled some one he had seen. The car- 
riage of person and the slight slender form 
altogether looked familiar. He turned his 
footsteps in that direction. “Miss Maxwell! 
Could it be possible? She had come to this 
place without his being the wiser — but Ida 
had been absent several days from Mayfield?” 

Merle Maxwell was equally surprised 
when he joined her. Almost the first expres- 
sion after the formal greeting was: 

“How are all my friends in Mayfield'.' How 
is Ida?" 

“And you havn’t heard. Miss Maxwell, of 


235 


Ida’s recent elopment?” 

“Elopement! No!” 

“Quite true. I see you are as greatly sur- 
prised as was Mayfield, myself included.” 

“Two surprises in a single afternoon, Mr. 
Norris, might prove pernicious to the heart. 
But who is the other leading character in this 
romantic incident?” 

“One, Joe Murray, of Wood Hill,” informed 
Mr. Norris. 

“Had it been you instead of this Mr. Mur- 
ray I should not have wondered.’ laughingly 
suggested Merle.” 

“Ida and I were never more to each other 
than congenial friends, Miss Maxwell.” 

“I sincerely trust that Ida may ever be 
happy and contented. A more desirable 
friend I never possessed,” commented Merle a 
bit regretfully. 

“You speak my sentiments correctly, Miss 
Maxwell.” 

“Vera Whitworth,” quiried Merle, “how is 
she?” 

“Oh, she too, is grieved over the loss of 
Ida. Her father. Dr. Whitworth, is summoned 


236 


often to the Worthington home. Mrs. Worth- 
ington and Mr. Leroy’s mother is growing 
more feeble each day.” 

“I am sorry indeed to learn of this intel- 
ligence, Mr. Norris.” Taking advantage of the 
opportunity Mr. Norris remarked: 

‘‘Rumor speaks favorably of Miss Eloise 
Parker and Mr. Leroy.” 

“I have not had the pleasure of Miss Par- 
ker’s acquaintance,” Merle replied confusedly. 
Not wishing to continue the present topic of 
conversation she suggested that they return 
to the toneau that he might meet her moth- 
er and Aunt. Her mother Mr. Norris was sure 
he would have recognized anywhere because 
of the striking resemblance of Merle. Not un- 
til he had received a cordial invitation from 
Mrs. Maxwell and her sister to call in their 
home did he quit their enjoyable presence. 

In her room sat gentle Mrs. Leroy with her 
head pillowed against the soft cushioned mo- 
rocco chair, a sweet smile playing over her 
thin, pale face. The unusual brightness of her 
kind eyes bespoke a meaning all too plainly. 
Madam Nurse sat by, frequently moistening 
the dry, parched lips with a preparation pre- 


237 


scribed by Dr. Whitworth. He again entered 
the room and taking her thin, wasted hand in 
his held it for a moment while he counted 
the pulse vibrations. Then, turning, walked 
into an adjoining room. 

Soon he was followed by the quick steps 
of Derris Leroy: 

“Dr. Whitworth.is there no hope?” 

Dr. Whitworth moved uneasily. 

“I am seeking the unvarnished truth. Dr. 
Whitworth” insisted Leroy. 

“My dear Mr. Leroy, there is no further 
hope for her in this life. It is only a matter of 
a few hours.” Observing Leroy’s bowed head 
and ashen face Dr. Whitworth continued: 

“It pains me to speak these words, howev- 
er, I cannot, conscientiously, withhold the so- 
licited truth and remain true to my profes- 
sion.” 

Derris Leroy raised his head and in a 
steady voice asked: “A change of climate and 
surroundings. Dr. Whitworth?” 

“That would only tend to hasten the end. 
My dear Mr. Leroy, all that human skill can 
do has been done; we cannot stay the hand of 
God. Sweet mothers, like beautiful flowers. 


238 


cannot be with us always. Everything earth- 
ly must end, so do our loved ones depart this 
life for a better one, we hope. For your moth- 
er, Leroy, it will only be a happy awakening in 
a heavenly home. Death is not so much a 
grim monster to those who dare to live faith- 
fully and sincerely the life set before them. 
Each day of our life in this world we are mak- 
ing preparations for death — sure to come to all 
in some way and at some time. This is hard 
to endure, yet, we must look beyond the 
grave. In parting with loved ones in this 
world we go to meet those who are waiting 
with outstretched arms to greet us. Your 
mother would fain remain longer with loved 
ones here but it is not God’s way and His way 
is best. Besides this, think of her dear com- 
panion and babies who have long waited her. 
You, Derris, yet have youth and it is yours to 
successfully live, as nearly as possible, the 
pure consecrated life taught you from infan- 
cy. God has been more merciful to us than 
we deserve, and may His blessings to you con- 
tinue, dear boy.” 

Mr. Leroy stood listening with bowed head 


239 


until Dr. Whitworth had finished, then he said, 
dejectedly: 

“Dr. Whitworth, go break this sad news to 
Annibel. It cannot be more grievous to her 
than to me. She has a worthy companion to 
share her every trial — I have no one. Mother 
is my all in this life.” 

As Dr. Whitworth softly closed the door 
behind him Derris Leroy sank into a chair and 
buried his head in his hands, his strong, manly 
form shaking convulsively. For several mo- 
ments he sat thus, then rose, composed him- 
self and went into his mother. He would 
spend the few remaining hours with her with 
or without the approval of Madam Nurse. 
Mrs. Worthington had preceded him a few 
moments, attended by her husband and 
Eloise Parker. 

Mrs. Leroy turned her head and scanned 
the room as if in search of some one. Then 
turned her gaze upon her only daughter: 

“Annibell, where are Freddie and Idell?” 

Mrs. Worthington turned to Dr. Whitworth 
who nodded approval. And the children 
were brought in. 


240 


'‘Are we all here?’ faintly asked Mrs. Le- 
roy. 

‘‘Yes, mother,” came from the lips of her 
children. 

“The babies, Annibell — I want to kiss the 
babies.” 

Mr. Worthington lifted the children upon 
her chair arm. She took the chubby little 
hands in her feeble ones. 

“God bless you, children, and may you 
grow to worthy womanhood and manhood. 
Good-by darlings” and she kissed them fond- 
ly. 

“Where you going, grandmudder,” asked 
liftle Freddie with eyes opened wide in won- 
der. 

“I am going to my sweet children and your 
grandfather, Freddie.” 

“I want to go with grandmother,” sobbed 
little Idell. And the children were led out in- 
to the nursery. 

Lacking in strength Mrs. Leroy subsid- 
ed into a rest for only a few moments. Then, 
observing the tear-stained faces before her, 
summoned her utmost strength to speak' 

“Children, do not weep for me. I am not 


241 


alone. The dear Jesus that has watched o’er 
me each day of my life and has borne every 
sorrow and heartache is with me now. Surely 
this is not death. I would not have you 
grieve for me, children. Be happy and strive 
to meet me in heaven.” Then addressing Mr. 
Worthington, continued: 

“Frederick, help Annibel to teach the ba- 
bies the way to our Savior.” 

“I will, mother,” 

She stopped a moment for her strength 
was going. Then turning her eyes upon her 
son, who was by her side, went on. “Derris, 
my dear son, continue to follow in your dear 
father’s footsteps whom you so much resem- 
ble. Be honest and upright in everything, 
following the teachings of our Savior. I would 
love to stay with you yet awhile, but I hear 
my Savior calling and loved ones are beckon- 
ing me home.” 

She sank back on her pillowed chair. “I 
am so tired.” Dr. Whitworth turned to Madam 
Nurse: 

“Lay her on the bed. She will have no 
more paroxysms, of coughing.” 


242 


“But Leroy was quicker than Madam 
Nurse. He gathered her tenderly in his arms 
and bore her to the bed, and arranging her 
pillows comfortaby. While Mrs. Worthington 
with her own hands moistened the dry lips 
Then the two knelt by her side, Mrs. Worthing- 
ton clinging to her, convulsively. Leroy with 
his own pocket handkerchief, wiped the cold 
drops of perspiration from her brow. Just 
a slight stir. “Oh, children, everyone is so 
happy — up yonder! I see your father, oh, hus- 
band, my own! Jesus — is — calling — me — 
home.” A soul went up to meet its God. 

Leroy placed a kiss upon his mother’s 
brow and with bowed head walked from the 
room. A few moments later Mrs. Worthing- 
ton was borne away between her husband 
and Eloise Parker. Though Annibel Worth- 
ington had a companion and children, it did 
not tend to lessen her grief for her dear de- 
parted mother, from whom she had scarcely 
been separated during her short life. Dr. 
Whitworth had done what he could and went 
out to serve others. 


243 


Chapter XV. 


'H|.UMMER was waning and Autumn 
^ ^ ^ close at hand. Mrs. Maxwell 

and her daughter’s visit had length- 
ened into weeks. They had retired to their 
room for the evening, after a pleasant day’s 
outing. 

“Mother,” said Merle, as she pillowed her 
head in her mother’s lap, “don’t you think our 
visit has been quite sufficient?” 


Mrs. Maxwell stroked her child’s beautiful, 
dark, brown hair and replied: 

“Yes, I think our visit has been rather a 
lengthy and pleasant one. Though I am 
afraid your health has not improved much.” 

“Oh, I am much better., mother. I — I feel 
quite strong. And if you are ready, I prefer 
returning home at once,” she suggested hope- 
fully. 

“Child, I have been ready to return home 
these last few weeks. We will wire your fath- 
er to-morrow to come and within a week we 


244 


shall be at home again.” 

“Oh, good!” exclaimed Merle.” But can we 
not return alone at once?” 

“Your father, Merle, would be much dis- 
pleased if we should attempt the journey 
alone. He insisted that we wire him when 
our visit was over, you remember?” 

“You are right, mother.” 

Several moments of silence ensued to be 
broken by Merle. 

"Mother,” she ventured, “I am to be mar- 
ried ere many moons.” 

“To whom, my dear.” 

“To whom! Why to Mr. Norris, mother.” 

Mrs. Maxwell had wondered many times 
concerning Derris Leroy and her child. But, 
remembering her own girlhood days and re- 
servedness in things of this nature, had sought 
no explanation from her child. 

“Mr. Norris is indeed a worthy young man. 
Merle. And do you love him more than all 
others? You know that true love is the 
base of all happiness..’ 

“Mother, Mr. Norris is worthy of the high- 


245 


est praise and . deserving of all happiness at- 
tainable.” 

Her mother’s question she evaded. Mrs. 
Maxwell took her child in her arms and lav- 
ished a dozen kisses upon her fair face. 

“May your future life be filled with happi- 
ness and rich blessings, my baby,” she said 
with tears glistening in her eyes — whether at 
the gladness in her own heart for her child’s 
happiness, or the thought of losing her to an- 
other, I know not. 

“When is your wedding to be?” she asked 
as soon as she was able to compose herself. 

“In the beautiful springtime, mother, 
early in May, perhaps.” 

“To me, springtime is the most beautiful 
season of the year,” commented Mrs. Maxwell. 
We must hasten home and begin prepara- 
tions at once,” she continued. “But where are 
you to make your home — in Mayfield?” 

“I — I suppose so, mother.” A dark cloud 
flitted across her face. She had not thought 
how hard it would be to go there to live with 
another than Derris Leroy. 

•‘Are you ill? asked Mrs. Maxwell. 

“No, mother, I am tired. I shall retire.” 


246 


She fondly bade her mother goodnight, linger- 
ing long, as if her heart bade her speak. 

“What is it child?’ her mother kindly ask- 
ed. 

“It will grieve me to leave you and father.” 

“We shall be, oh, so lonesome without you, 
but your father and I are willing to s£.crifice 
our pleasure for your happiness. Besides,it is 
not so far to Mayfield and we can be with 
each other often.” 

“True,mother. And after all, our greatest 
pleasure are found in sacrificing our own hap- 
piness for others.” These words Merle Max- 
well spoke from the depths of her honest 
heart. There was for her no real happiness 
beyond this. And why not go with Gaston 
Norris if “her presence alone” afforded him 
happiness. She had told him that she could 
not return his love, but perhaps one day she 
would learn to care for him. 

The following day a message was dis- 
patched to Uncle Tim, and his arrival was ex- 
pected daily. Meanwhile the Maxwell home 
was in a state of excitement. Every floor was 
being mopped and repolished. Every rug 


247 


dusted and replaced by Madie, who was cheer- 
fully assisted by her better half. Aunt Tex- 
annna was literally bubbling over with joy. 
She did wish “them kids” would quit their 
“foolin’ Every window in the house was to be 
polished. “Every inch of dis hyeh yard is go- 
ing to be raked,” she mused, half aloud. “Them 
magnolium leaves had to be dared off, every 
one of ’em. And, law sakes.she had a bushel 
o’ bakin’ to do, for didn’t Marser Maxwell tell 
her to prepare a feest for ’em? And hadn’t he 
done went to fetch Missus and her baby home? 
Whut if they shuld come a day or two ahead 
o’ time,” she chuckled to herself 

In due time the work was completed and 
the “home coming day,” as Aunt Texanna 
would have it, had dawned. The entire place 
was shining as bright as a new pin. Both Ma- 
die and her elated helpmate were bedecked 
in their wedding apparal. Mose and the po- 
nies were in waiting an hour ere time to drive 
to the station. It was impossible to distin- 
tinguish who were the happier on that memo- 
rable day — the Maxwells or their servants. It 
seemed to Merle that she should never care to 


248 


be away from home again. She had enjoyed 
and appreciated the kind hospitality of her 
aunt, but to her, home was the dearest place 
on earth. Ah! could she leave this sweet 
home for one she loved not? The most hum- 
ble, insignificant home in the world to-day is 
more tolerable than the home wherein no true 
love exists. 

The autumn months glided by unevent- 
fully, so far as Popularville was concerned. 
The cold winter days came on in fierceness. 
The inhabitants of the little village had evi- 
dently subsided into winter quarters. Merle 
Maxwell and her mother were improving ev- 
ery moment in planning and making dainty 
handwork for the former’s trousseau. Of lin- 
gerie garments there were to be a dozen of 
each. And dresses innumerable with cor- 
responding accessories were, designed. Merle 
went through it all as gravely as though she 
were fashioning her burial robe. The increas- 
ing paleness on her sweet face was attributed 
to too much work by all save Aunt Texanna, 
who persisted in doubtfully shaking her head. 
“Dis Marser Norris ain’t de one fo’ dat chile,’* 
she repeated time after time when alone. Un- 


249 


cle Tim was somewhat slow in expressing his 
opinion of the “affair.” “But he didn’t know if 
he hadn’t rather favor Mr. Leroy in prefer- 
ence to this one Mr, Norris,” he kindly inti- 
mated to Mrs. Maxwell one evening as they 
sat together over the smouldering coals in the 
old-fashioned, wood fireplace — for Mrs. Max- 
well would have no other in her sleeping 
room. And why, when wood was so plentiful? 
Neither money nor pains did Mrs. Maxwell 
spare in fashioning her child’s trousseau. 

Merle Maxwell sat before a window sew- 
ing on some dainty creation. Outside was 
cold and gloomy. The ground was white with 
snow and still it was falling. Icicles great and 
small hung from every tree and bough. The 
howling winds and dark clouds that o’er- 
spread the sky indicated a violent snowstorm, 

“such as Popularville had not witnessed for 
years,” prophesied Uncle Tim. 

Merle, laying aside her work, went to the 
window and looked out intently. The day 
was so much in accordance with her thoughts 
and mood. She peered out more close- 


250 


iy. Peeping up over yonder hill an ob- 
ject was perceptible. On and on it came 
crouching close by the fence as if to avoid the 
penetrating wind and snow. Wearily the fig- 
ure picked his footsteps, with slouched hat 
pulled low over his face. His thin, alpacca 
dress coat was much worn. A more pitiful, 
dejected being she never before beheld. 

He was turning in at their own gate. She 
v/atched him as he plodded up the gravel 
walk. She hoped her father would as>k him in 
to warm by their bright, glov/ing fire. She 
caught a glimpse of his face as he ascended 
the steps. Horrors, what a face! She shud- 
dered to look upon it. His brow was furrowed 
with wrinkles. His eyes were red and inflam- 
ed. His face looked swollen and dissipated 
and his hair was long and unkempt. Withal 
his appearance bespoke a miserable, forlorn 
creature. Voices sounded in the doorway. 
Could it be that her father was sending this 
human being away on a day like this? She 
rushed out into the spacious hall. 

‘‘Father, ask him to warm,” she pleaded. 

“The odor of strong drink is on his breath 
now, child. How unfortunate for — ” 

‘‘But oh, father, see how he shivers! He 


251 


is freezing, call him back!” she pleaded as she 
watched the retreating figure going slowly 
down the walk. 

“Perhaps you are right child. It shall be 
as you say. Perhaps you had best have Tex- 
ana prepare him a bite to eat,” Mr. Maxwell 
suggested as he opened the door to let the 
stranger in. 

Back to the kitchen Merle went but not to 
summon Aunt Texana. With her own hands 
she lighted a fire in the big range. And in a 
few moments had prepared a tempting lunch. 
Her biscuits were as light as any Texana, 
herself, could have baked. She wondered how 
he liked eggs best but she should prepare 
them her father’s favorite way. The tea she 
poured into the cup steaming hot, for that 
would aid in warming the cold, benumbed be- 
ing. Ham sandwiches — why had she not 
thought of them before? It would not long 
delay the meal, and too, meat was so 
strengthening. A bountiful piece of ginger- 
bread she placed on the serving tray, for any- 
one should be fond of Aunt Texana’s deli- 
cious gingerbread. 

Merle Maxwell stood by and watched him 


252 


devour the last bite of food prepared. The 
second cup of tea was offered and accepted, 
and gulped down as eagerly as the first. She 
noticed that his hands were small and deli- 
cate as if they were strangers to work. He 
went through the meal without having utter- 
ed scarcely a word. When he had finished 
he thanked both Mr. Maxwell and Merle kind- 
ly for their hospitalityjthen rose to go. 

Merle absented her presence from the 
room, returning in a few moment’s time with a 
discarded but good coat of her father’s and 
bade him accept it. Within a pocket she 
placed a small testament, which was discov- 
ered by the stranger later during the day. The 
only indication beyond that of an idle wan- 
derer or vagrant was a diamond stud in his 
shirt bosom. Merle felt contented now that 
she had done all in her humble way to relieve 
the suffering of this human being. No doubt 
somewhere he had a loving sister, mother, and 
perhaps — a wife, who were daily watching for 
his home coming. 

The stranger, now refreshed in body and 
mind, went on his weary way. The warm 
food had worked wonders in reviving his in- 
tellectual faculty as well as his body. Once 
253 


free from the influence of strong liquor, he 
realized that he had wandered many miles 
from home, and turned his footsteps in that 
direction. On and on he plodded the remain- 
der of the day. Night was coming on and the 
cold wind growing more fierce. The snow had 
drifted deep, so deep in places that he could 
scarcely force his way through. He was grow- 
ing weak from hunger. The bountiful lunch 
afforded him by Merle Maxwell early in the 
morning was not sufficient sustenance for the 
day’s journey. His feet were sore from tramp- 
ing. So tired and cold was he that he could 
have welcomed a bed of straw. 

On he went until his utmost strength was 
exhausted. Then sinking by the road side 
searched his pockets for a handkerchief with 
which to wipe the freezing water from his 
face. So cold was he now that he had forgot- 
ten the comfort of the new coat earlier in the 
day. What was that? As he drew his numb 
hand from a pocket he drew with it the little 
Testament. Leaf by leaf he turned its pages 
until his eyes rested upon these words: “For 
God so loved the world, that He gave His only 
begotten son that whomsoever believeth in 
Him might not perish, but have everlasting 

254 


iife.” Again and again he strained his eyes to 
read the sweet message in the gathering dark- 
ness. Could this mean him? Was it possible 
that God so loved him that He gave His only 
son that he might live? Was this the same 
God that he had heard read and talked so 
much in his home, and that she — she had beg- 
ged him to accept? Was he not one little in- 
significant part of the world? “Who-so-ever 
believeth.” he repeated over and over again. 
Could God forgive him of all his wickedness? 
His entire life illumed before him as vividly 
as if it all had transpired the previous day. “I 
do believe,” he suddenly wailed. “I shall not 
perish. I shall live forever.” If he could only 
go to — her, and tell her that he had ac- 
cepted her Jesus. He would on the morrow. 
A new expression stole over his countenance. 
And gripping the little Testament in his hand 
he crouched beneath the snow for warmth 
and shelter from the penetrating wind. 

Come what might, Felecia Langford's mis- 
sion went on and so did her tongue. She 
seemed happy and contented now, that she 
presided regularly at the little village church 
organ. She was triumphantly stationed at 
her post each Sabbath morn. Each moment 
255 


of Mrs. Langford’s life was consumed either in 
counting her “one and, two and, three and, 
four and,” or, picking out the faults of others. 
One, it seemed, was as essential to her as the 
other. 

The village club met in an afternoon so 
soon as the inclement weather permitted. 
The dependent sex of Popularville were only 
too glad of an occasion to assemble together, 
thus getting away from home where they had 
been shut in for weeks. Recreation and di- 
version are as necessary to human existence 
as the food we eat daily. Among the first to 
make her appearance at the little church on 
this occasion, as on most others, was Felecia 
Langford. And with her that same sanctimo- 
nious expression and air. 

Ere many minutes she removed her seat 
among a group of ladies. Among whom were: 
Miss Ogilvie, Aunt Hester Pearson and others. 
She settled herself, contentedly, in her chair, 
and addressed the ladies confidently. 

“And we are to have a wedding in our 
town, soon.” 

“A wedding! who? exclaimed Miss Ogilvie, 


256 


while others of the group looked wide-eyed 
and open-mouthed in surprise. 

‘‘Miss Merle Maxwell is to be married to 
Mr. Topleitz,” was the informant’s reply. 

“To Mr. — Topleitz! when?” came the cry 
from all in the sound of Felecia Langford’s 
voice. 

“It is to be soon, I judge, from the way 
they are sewing. Why they have been pre- 
paring her trousseau ever since they returned 
home early in the fall. For Mrs. Maxwell’s ne- 
gro, Madie, told my washerwoman that she 
never heard of as many nice things in all her 
life as Mrs. Maxwell and Merle were making.” 

“But Mr. Topleitz,” sighed Miss Ogilvie. 

“Who else could it be?” He spends most 
of his evenings at the Maxwells’. Besides, 
didn’t he go with her to Camden, New Jersey, 
last summer? A thing I would never have 

done,” she added sneeringly. 

Aunt Hester Pearson had been a silent 
listener until this last remark. She rubbed 
her rheumatic joints, straighted up and look- 
ed straight into Mrs. Langford’s face. 

“Felecia,” she said, “Mr. Topleitz didn’t go to 
New Jersey with Merle. He went with Mr- 
257 


Maxwell. And them two aint going to marry 
neither. Not that Mr. Topleitz ain’t good 
enough for any girl nearer his own age, but 
ain’t he always spent evenings with Mr. Max- 
well who has knowed him since he was a 
baby? Merle Maxwell ain’t never done you 
nor nobody any harm. If the rest on us would 
do half as well as her, this here world 
wouldn’t be half so wicked.” 

“Of course,” sneered Mrs. Langford. ‘‘But 
Mrs. Pearson, Merle must have had some in- 
fluence concerning Mr. Topleitz’s decision in 
going to Camden, for they were conversing 
together down at the grove not more than a 
week before they went away. I should not 
have known but for my girls going there for 
an hour’s play in the shallow water. She was 
there first and waited awhile for his coming. 
And when he made his appearance my girls 
started for home! I should not wonder that 
Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell went along.” 

“And do you really think they will not be 
married. Aunt Hester?” questioned Miss Ogil- 
vie with more meaning than she intended. 

“I know they won’t Mandie. Why Mr. Top- 
leitz nursed her when she were a tiny babe. 
If they did see fit to marry it would be no 


258 


more than many others would 'do if they 
could git a chance.” 

“Perhaps, Mrs. Pearson,” suggested Mrs. 
Langford, “you could give us an account of 
Miss Merle’s Mayfield beau and why he ceased 
visiting in Popularville,” 

“Yes,” insisted Miss Ogilvie. 

“Girls that is no affair of mine. Merle 
knows and that is sufficient.” 

“Very probable,” scoffed Mrs, Langford. 

Just then Brother Ha vis entered the 
church and Mrs. Langford rose to greet him. 

“How glad we are that you have come. 
Brother Ha vis. We were just wishing that 
you were her* to conduct the devotional ser- 
vice. We enjoy your splendid talks so much. 
Amanda you call the meeting to order while I 
see what mischief the children are about. I 
brought those twins this afternoon and they 
are so meddlesome. Oh, Brother Ha vis, have 
you heard that Merle Maxwell and Mr. Top- 
leitz are to be married soon?’. 

“No,” he exclaimed. 

“They are and, oh, 1 am so glad for them,” 
she assured him. 


259 


Chapter XVI. 



Harwood sat weeping bitterly in 
^ ^ ^ her small, two-roomed, dilapidated, 
cottage home, where she had been 
taken on the day of her elopement with Joe 
Murray — with the promise of a better home 
awaiting her. The incessant rattling of the 
small windows grated on her nerves, adding, if 
possible, to her misery. The wind coming up 
through the cracks of the bare floor, rendered 
her more uncomfortable. She placed on the 
dying coals the last stick of wood she had 
been able to And along the fence ways and 
hedges. A small, wooden bedstead, support- 
ing a few scant bedclothes, and an old time 
wardrobe, purchased at half price, and a cou- 
ple of chairs composed the furniture of her 
only bedchamber. In the adjoining shed room 
which served as dining hall and kitchen, stood 
a homemade table, a much used cooking stove 


260 


and an addional larder, which had been emp- 
tied a day since, constituted its sole equip- 
ment. The tumbled down porch and decay- 
ing columns added to the dreariness of the 
place in which the beautiful Ida Murray sat 
wasting away. 

The long months of hardship were telling 
on her youth. The once plump, rosy cheeked 
Ida was now thin and pale. From lack of care 
her mass of dark hair had lost some of its 
lustre. The once soft, delicate hands, were 
now tanned and hardened by toil. Hanging 
on the wall was her mother’s portrait, the on- 
ly article she had taken with her on that 
memorable night she quitted her father’s 
home. She shuddered to think of that event- 
ful night which had proved destruction to her 
future life. It seemed that her mother was 
looking straight into her face chiding her for 
hasty deed — for which she had so bitterly re- 
pented. In wailing tones of anguish she cried 
out to her mother to come to her rescue, as 
she sat weeping before her, it seemed. “Oh! 
how could she longer endure this life?’’ 

Joe Murray, after a brief honeymoon, had 
fallen back to his old habits of strong drink 


261 


and idleness. Often he had gone on a drunk- 
en debauchery for days, leaving Ida alone to 
make her own provisions as best she could. 
This time he had been gone longer than us- 
ual. Any day she might be turned out in the 
cold on account of unpaid rent bills, though it 
was only a hut. Joe Murray’s creditor’s pur- 
sued him daily. Nowhere was he to be cred- 
ited. The Murray wealth had merely been 
an enticement. She could see it all clearly 
now. Ida had never loved Joe Murray and 
now her thoughts of him were not above con- 
tempt and scorn. What should she do, return 
to her father and stepmother, whom she had 
not seen since the night of her elopement? 
No, never, net proud Ida Harwood. 

For moments she sat gazing into vacancy. 
Then, with lips pressed closely and with de- 
termination written on her pale face, she rose. 
And throwing her mantle about her shoul- 
ders she drew from under the bed a traveling 
case and began to place within it her few be- 
longings. Once she had studied in a nurses’ 
training school, and, now, she should apply for 
a position as nurse. Yes, she should repay 


262 


every penny expended on her existence at 
Wood Hill. Beyond that, Joe Murray’s cred- 
itors might look to him for recompense. “She 
would leave ere his return that he might nev- 
er know her whereabouts,” she determined 
as she took from the wall her mother’s por- 
trait. She proceeded to wrap it carefully in 
one of her own few dresses. 

Everything in readiness for her departure 
she seated herself again for meditation. “How 
could she make her immediate departure 
with the ground covered with snow? But the 
wind had ceased blowing and it seemed as if 
the sun would break through the dense fog.” 
These were her thoughts as she peered hope- 
fully out at a small window. “What! a group 
of men at the tumbled down front gate! More 
creditors. Oh, horrors! Gaston Norris there, 
and he was coming in too. What should she 
do? Of all others she could not see him. Pre- 
tend she was not there? Anything would be 
better than facing Gaston Norris under her 
present surroundings.” 

Louder and louder sounded the knock on 
the door. She must answer. With trembling 
hands she unbolted the door and stood 


263 


speechless in the presence of the man she had 
long loved. Gaston Norris stepped back in 
surprise at her appearance. “Could that be 
Ida Harwood?” Then remembering his mission 
stepped inside the comfortless room. 

“Ida,” he said as he tt.ok her thin, wasted 
hand in his, "it is a sad message I have 
to bring.” 

“Those are the only messages I ever re- 
ceive, Gaston,” she said with eyes cast down in 
shame. 

“But Ida,” continued Mr. Norris sympathet- 
ically, “this is the worst that could be.” 

“I am prepared for the worst, Gaston, of 
anything.” 

“Ida, a stranger was founnd this morning 
frozen in the deep snow a few miles beyond 
Mayfield. And I recognized the form to be 
that of your husband.” 

“Bring him in,” she said as she sank into a 
chair and wished she could sink through the 
floor, then out of existence. 

He took from his dress coat pocket the 
little Testament and said: “This was found 


264 


grasped in his hand.” 

Ida took it in wonderment. What could it 
mean? She turned its pages in search of some 
explanation. He had never before touched a 
Bible of any form, in the few years that she 
had known him. There! on the last page, all 
but blotted out, was the name of Merle Max- 
well. “Oh, Merle, Merle,” she wailed as she fell 
prostrate to the floor. As she slowly regain- 
ed consciousness she heard whispering voices 
in the room. 

“No, no, do not send for my father,” she 
pleaded, “I could not have him come here." 

“As she wishes,” commanded Mr. Norris. 
“She has enough already to endure,” Ida heard 
him say. The following day a new grave was 
made in the little cemetery near Wood Hill. 

Ida was now, if possible, more determined to 
carry out her plans than before. She decid- 
edly refused to return to her father when 
urged by Mr. Norris. The only information 
obtainable regarding her future was that she 
should work for her support. When Norris 
had done for her all that he could, and she 
would accept no further assistance, he retum- 


265 


ed to his home and work and — thoughts of 
Merle Maxwell. Did Ida Murray remember 
her father’s words? Did she repent of her 
hasty decision? Does not every chilc^ who 
disobeys his parents wishes, repent sooner or 
later? Just as sure do we, who disobey our 
Heavenly Father, repent sometime, some- 
where. But her stepmother deserves the con- 
demnation, you say, and so do I. But should 
we allow others to drive us to evil doing? 

Ida Murray, closely veiled that she might 
avoid any possible detection, picked her foot- 
steps over the snow covered road. An im- 
possibility to make the journey in a day even 
if she were strong. But she knew of a small 
tavern not more than half the distance of 
her intended journey where she could spend 
the night, reaching her destination late in the 
afternoon of the following day without proba- 
bility of meeting those who might recognize 
her form. More and more frequently she was 
forced to stop for a few moment’s rest. But 
on and on she compelled her footsteps. The 
thought of a conveyance, but how dare she 
entertain the thought of such luxury with 


266 


only the price of a few night’s moderate lodg- 
ing in her possession. And that, — she blushed 
crimson to think of it — Gaston had placed in 
her hand the day of his departure from Wood 
Hill and had insisted upon her accepting 
more. If she were only spared time and 
strength, that with her other indebtedness, 
should be repaid. 

With strength entirely exhausted she reach" 
ed the midway inn just at dusk. She asked 
for a night’s shelter. 

“Sorry, Miss, but we’re full tonight,” re- 
sponded the stout inn keeper. 

“Oh! can you not keep me just this night? 
I am so tired and weary,” she pleaded. 

“You do look pegged out,” commented Jim 
Jeffrey. “You wait a minute till I see Maria. 
Maybe she will let you have her best room, 
whut she never lets to nobody, being’s you are 
a woman and just about pegged out.” 

“O, please do! 1 will pay you for it,” en- 
treated Ida. 

At the thought of the promised fee, Jim 
Jeffrey went in search of his wife as fast as 
his fat limbs could take him. 


267 


“Maria,” he said in a breath, “a miss at the 
door wants to stay the night?” 

“What is any gal out this late for I’d jest 
like to know? You knowed every room is 
packed full Jim Jeffrey, jest as well as I do. 
There is my only company room; and you 
have always knowed I ain’t going to have no 
stranger sleeping in my best bed.’ 

“I done told her we wuz full to the brim 
Marla, but she begged so awful and said she 
was so tired and wary. She does look pale 
and jest about flickered out. And, Maria, she 
said she could pay for a night’s lodging, but 
you sho wouldn’t believe it according to her 
looks. I done told her you wouldn’t let no- 
body in your best room, but I would see you 
jest to please her. Maria, you go see her your- 
self.” 

“That I can, Jim Jeffrey. I am no chicken- 
hearted nothing. Are you shore she would 
pay?” Maria Jeffrey asked over her shoulder 
as she started for the door, where Ida Murray 
stood shivering in the cold, hopefully, trust- 
fully waiting. To her those moments seemed 


268 


hours. Her feet were sore and burning. So 
tired was she that she was beginning to feel 
weak and faint. In all her young life she had 
not walked half that distance in one day. 

Mrs. Jeffrey peered out at the window be- 
fore going to the door. “Law, I jest wonder if 
she has got any ketchin’ disease? She looks 
powerfully like it,” she thought as she opened 
the door. 

“Howdy, Miss.” 

“Good evening” said Ida as calmly as pos- 
sible. Can you not spare me a room? Any 
'kind will do,” she entreated with chattering 
teeth. 

“Come in, child, you are freezing. Ain’t 
nobody’s gal going to freeze at my door, if I 
do have to let my best room.” 

“O thank you,” Ida said as she dragged her- 
self in at the open door and into Maria Jef- 
freys’s best room, where she fell into the near- 
est chair. 

“Law are you ill, child? You are not go- 
ing to faint, are you? I hope she ain’t got no 
ketchin’ malady,” observed the landlady as 
she quitted the room for a cup of hot tea. 
“Here child, drink this. It will do you a world 


269 


o’ good. Ida took the proffered cup in a trem- 
bling hand and gulped the contents in a few 
swallows. For that was the first nourishment 
she had had since early daybreak. The w’arm 
tea revived her to such an extent that Mrs. 
Jeffrey again rushed out of the room, return- 
ing in a short time, with another cup of tea 
and a tray of tempting edibles — the best Ida 
had enjoyed since leaving Mayfield. She 
thought that she had never tasted such de- 
licious food before. Law, its the first she’s had 
for weeks, thought her landlady. 

After she had eaten and thanked her 
waitress gratefully, she proceeded to remove 
her wrap with the assistance of Mrs. Jeffrey. 

“Them shoes, child, are wet as water itself. 
And, law, look at them skirts! If you don’t 
die afore mornin’ it’ll be a wonder to me.” 

“Yes,” admitted Ida. “I should have had 
my overshoes. The snow had begun to melt 
in some places.” She looked down at her be- 
drenched skirts and thought that it would be 
a blessing to her and others if she should not 
survive another day. 

“Now, if you get to ailin’ in the night and 
need anything jest call me,” kindly offered 
Maria Jeffrey as she quitted the room. 


270 


“Oh, thank you, thank you” said Ida. 
Though she was much revived, her feet were 
sore and her limbs ached. But before retiring 
she opened the little Testament which bore 
Merle Maxwell’s inscription and read a few 
short verses. “That wanderer was nearly 
froze and starved,” Mrs. Jeffrey informed her 
husband. “But she looks and talks like a 
plum lady.” Not often were Mrs. Jeffrey’s 
hospitalities thus kindly received. She was 
completely won by Ida’s gratefulness and 
even wished that she had a better room to 
offer. 

The following morning, Jim Jeffrey, 
as usual, was up early lighting fires and 
starting the day to rolling. With a merry 
whistle, and a white apron tied around his 
short, stout figure, he stood over the meat 
board pounding a beefsteak when Marie Jef- 
frey entered the kitchen. 

“Law sakes, don’t make such a noise, Jim. 
and let that prodigal gal sleep jest as long as 
she will. I heard her groaning in the night 
time. I jest knov/ed she didn’t sleep a wink.’’ 

“I done forgot, Maria,” assured good-natur- 


271 


ed Jim Jeffrey, “but ain’t this here beefsteak 
got to be prepared?” 

“Course it has,” agreed his wife. “And say. 
Jim, let’s not charge her for her night’s keep. 
She said she wuz willing to pay, but from the 
looks on her clothes she sho ain’t got much 
chink.” 

“You are right, Maria. You recollect what 
the Book says about such things.” 

“Yes, yes, Jim, I know.” And she turned 
to remove from the cooking stove a pot of 
boiling beverage. 

A tempting breakfast was placed on the 
table streaming hot, for Jim and Maria Jef- 
frey were noted cooks. 

“Now Jim,” said the landlady, “you jest 
wait on the folks while I light a fire in my 
best room and see to it that our wanderer 
wants for nothing. Don’t forget that Dr. Whit- 
worth takes his hot water before he eats, 
Jim,” she called back as she disappeared 
through the door. Dr. Whitworth had been 
called to the country the previous day and, 
on account of the disagreeable weather, had 
put up for the night at the inn. 

Scarcely had the inmates of the moder- 


272 


ate but comfortable tavern seated themselves 
at the morning meal ere Mrs. Jeffrey appear- 
ed id the doorway excited and agitated. 

"Dr. Whitworth, she done lost her talking! 
She can’t say a thing! Them wet shoes and 
skirts done it! I knowcd they would.’’ 

“What! Who is it Mrs. Jeflrey?’’ asked Dr. 
Whitworth rising from the table. 

"Law, I don’t know who she is, Dr. Whit- 
worth. She came here last night half starved 
and nearly froze. She sho was porely clad, 
but she talked like a sure ’nough lady. And 
now poor thing, has got a death of cold. You 
jest come right in and cure her up Dr. Whit- 
worth. And if she can’t pay you, I will.’’ 

"That is all right about the fee, Mrs. Jef- 
frey. I shall do all in my power for her.’’ And 
Dr. Whitworth left an untasted breakfast. 

“This way, doctor, right into my.best room, 
but law sakes, I wish I had a better one to of- 
fer her. She is such a likely girl.” 

“Where is her home?” inquired Dr. Whit- 
worth. 

“She ain’t got none. Doctor, but she said 
she was on her way to Mayfield to a sanitory 
or seme big company to get work. Looking 
after the sick folks I think she said. 


273 


"Yes,” Dr. Whitworth said as he stepped 
into the patient’s room, followed closely by 
Mrs. Jeffrey. A glance at the form lying help- 
lessly on the bed and Dr. Whitworth stepped 
back in astonishment. “Ida Harwood”! he 
muttered to himself. 

“Is she very ill. Doctor?” asked Mrs. Jeffrey 
alarmed at Dr. Whitworth’s maneuvers. If the 
question was heard it was also evadesd. A 
thorough examination, and a severe attack of 
tonsilitis was pronounced. Dr. Whitworth 
prescribed for her. He gave careful direc- 
tions to Mrs. Jeffrey and then went out to 
breakfast. 

After he had finished his breakfast he 
went in to sit with his patient. W’nile his 
willing nurse went in to do justice to her 
morning meal. He could see that the pre- 
scribed medicine had accomplished wonders. 
And when the propitious time presented it- 
self, he said: 

‘‘Ida, my child, why are you here?” 

‘‘Oh, Dr. Whitworth, I did not think you 
would recognize me,” she wailed in whispered 
tones, for she could scarcely speak aloud. 

“Ida, I should have known you anywhere. 
You are the image of your dear mother and 
more now than ever before. But why are you 
here?” 


274 


“Oh, Dr. Whitworth.” she cried, and then 
bu^Winto a fit of weeping. 

‘That is all right, child, tell me all about it” 
Dr. Whitworth said as he stroked her beauti- 
ful hair. Her poor heart had been breaking 
for some friend to share her trials and as best 
she could confided all to Dr. Whitworth from 
the night she quit her father’s home for Joe 
Murray. 

“Return to your father,” insisted Dr. Whit- 
worth. 

“O I cannot! I must have work.” 

“Return to your father and I will give you 
my patients to nurse as soon as you are 
strong, if you persist in making your own sup- 
port.’* 

“The promised work was too great a temp- 
tation to her with scarcely enough in her 
purse to recompense for her present susten- 
ance. Again her thoughts dwelt on her pres- 
ent position in life. And again she purposed 
a refusal of Dr. Whitworth’s wishes. 

Just then footsteps were heard in the 
hall way. 

“Your father, Ida, he said as Mr. Harwood 
entered the room. 

“Oh, father, forgive, forgive,” she wailed in 
a hoarse whisper. And ere the words were 
uttered her father held his child in his arms. 


275 


Chapter XVII. 



NOTHER morning dawned clear and 
bright save for the bank of dark, 
violent clouds o’erspreading the 


western horizon. The ill omen of the morning 
rainbow, the brightest eyes ever beheld, en- 
circled the western sky. The atmosphere was 
sultry and oppressive. Scercely did the breeze 
move a leaf on tree or bough. The occasional, 
low, rumbling thunder agitated the minds of 
the superstitious and the unsuperstitious. Yet 
Popularville went on the same; and so did Fe- 
lecia Langford’s tongue. 

Miss Ogilvie was passing Mrs. Langford’s 
home in great haste. She must call at the 
butcher’s and the grocer’s, then hasten home 
ere the rain and storm, for it was sure to come. 
She had prophesied that to the servants at 
first sight of the morning rainbow. What! Mrs. 
Langford hailing her on a morning like this, 
when she was in such a hurry, too! 

“Whatever can it be, Felecia?’’ Miss Ogilvie 
asked as Mrs. Langford came running breath- 
lessly out at her front gate. 

“Have you heard, Amanda ?’’ gasped Mrs. 
Langford. 


276 


“Heard that it is going to storm, Felecia?” 

“Worse than a storm to some, I venture,” 
asserted Mrs. Langford disappointedly. 

“What, Felecia?” The idea of anything 
being worse than a storm excited Miss Ogilvie 
beyond measure. 

“Amanda, Mr. Topleitz is not going to mar- 
ry Merle Maxwell.” Miss Ogilvie threw her 
hands up in surprise and Mrs. Langford con- 
tinued: 

“Amanda, it is just as I say. Mr. Topleitz 
has deceived her. Our plan worked wonder- 
fully. I gave Mahalie the new, red calico and 
sent her to Mrs. Maxwell’s negro, Madie, with 
careful instructions to find out everything 
possible. And, Amanda, she came back with 
the intelligence that Merle was not going to 
marry Mr. Topleitz. And listen, Amanda, Ma- 
halie says Madie told her that Mr. Topleitz did 
not go there near so often as he used to. I tell 
you, Amanda. Mr Topleitz has disappointed 
her, just like that Mayfield young man did, 
and they say her health is failing every day. 
Why, she looks like a walking skeleton. They 
say it is ill health but I should diagnose her 
case grief.” 

“And her trousseau?.’ queried Miss Ogilvie. 

“Oh, I suppose her finery will keep,” com- 
mented her informant, “and Amanda, I just 
can’t help believing these rumors are true. 
And just to prove that Mahalie’s statements 


277 


were true, I offered congratulations to Mr. Top- 
leitz when I met him yesterday afternoon. He 
said, ‘Mrs. Langford, I should sooner think of 
marrying my own child, had I one.’ " 

“I always knew that Mr. Topleitz was too 
old for Merle Maxwell,” sweetly agreed Miss 
Ogilvie. 

So interested was she that she had forgot- 
ten that she had not yet called at the butch- 
er’s and grocer’s, until a flash of lightning fol- 
lowed by a loud peal of thunder reminded 
her of her unfinished errand. At once she took 
a hasty leave of Mrs. Langford and hurried on 
her way happier than she had been for months 
— since Felecia Langford had informed her of 
Mr. Topleitz’s approaching marriage to Merle. 
The clouds looked threatening, yet Miss Ogil- 
vie persisted in ‘‘her own selection of edibles 
for her table.” 

The morning was advancing and so were 
the clouds. The old village clock was slowly 
striking the noon hour, as if warning the peo- 
ple of some impending danger. The wind had 
changed its course and was coming fiercely 
from the southwest. There appeared a violent 
disturbance in the elements. The atmosphere 
was chilly and disagreeable. Low on the 
ground, not a great way from the village, a 
dark smoke seemed to be rolling and boiling 
in anger. 

The wind was coming in great puffs when 


278 


Miss Ogilvie ran into Mrs. Langford’s house al- 
most breathless. 

“Felecia, I knew it was coming.” 

“Close that door quick, Amanda,” greeted 
Mrs. Langford in excitement. The rain was 
now coming in gushes; the lightning was com- 
ing more forcibly, followed by peals of thunder 
that seemed to shake the entire earth. Such 
commotion had never before been witnessed 
in Popularville or its vicinity. Miss Ogilvie 
was sorely distressed because of not reaching 
home ere the storm came. Mahalie would let 
her last chicken drown. She was so thankful 
that it was not her day off to wash for Mrs. 
Langford. She did wonder if she would think 
to close the latticed windows. In case she 
didn’t every window light would be shattered 
by the hail that was now coming in great 
stones. The day had turned into night — the 
darkest ever known to human being. It was 
so dark that men hurrying in from their morn- 
ing work could scarcely find their way home, 
even if they could battle against the wind, 
hail and rain. 

In the Langford home, as well as all other 
homes of Popularville, everything was excite- 
ment. Miss Ogilvie was going from room to 
room and from window to window, wondering 
if her home and possessions were being blown 
away. Adam Langford, little less excited than 


279 


she. was engaged in propping doors and trying 
to quiet his wife, who stood wringing her hands 
and pleading for mercy. The cries of little Fe- 
lecia and Verbenie, who were clutching to 
their frantic mother’s dress, added pity to the 
scene. Master William and Willard siezed 
this propitious opportunity for viewing the 
contents of Miss Ogilvie’s basket of provisions. 
They were doing justice to a jar of lemon but- 
ter when detected by its owner, who at once 
siezed the basket and conveyed it to the room 
in which were Mr. and Mrs. Langford. 

The house was shaking fearfully. Here and 
there a window light was missing. Timber 
from outbuildings was flying in the air. A 
scream from Mrs. Langford brought Miss Ogil- 
vie from an adjoining room where she was en- 
deavoring to force in a vacant window pane, a 
sofa cushion, against the impetuous wind. She 
threw her hands up in terror when she beheld 
Mrs. Langford in a heap on the floor and Adam 
Langford bending over her. 

“Whatever has happened?” she gasped. 

“Thunder-struck, I — I think,” informed the 
excited Mr. Langford. 

“Lightning-struck, you mean.” 

“Ye-yes,” he said, as the two lifted her to 
the bed. 

Miss Ogilvie took from the medicine closet 
pain-oleum, camphor, mustard ointment, lini- 


280 


merit, and, in her excitement, a bottle of lily 
toilet water, applying alternately. Adam Lang- 
ford started as if a sudden thought had siezed 
him. 

“A doctor, Amanda !” 

“In this tempest, Mr. Langford f’ 

Mr. Langford looked out. “Why, Miss 
Amanda, the wind is ceasing, and the hail and 
rain have ceased entirely. Surely a doctor 
would not mind the water and mud.’’ 

“Just as you prefer, Mr. Langford, although 
Felecia is much revived and a doctor’s fee 
might as well be saved,’’ 

“Felecia would never forgive me for not 
calling a doctor, Miss Amanda. Besides it 
might be best.” 

“Use your best judgment, Mr. Langford,” 
And Adam Langford called the village physi- 
cian. Mrs. Langford yawned, opened her eyes 
and looked about frantically. 

“Her breathing was natural,” Miss Ogilvie 
thought. Perhaps she had not been lightning 
struck, but had only fainted through fear. 

The clouds had disappeared, displaying a 
clear, blue sky, with the bright sun shining 
forth in all its radiance. The birds were out 
singing a merry roundelay when the village 
doctor arrived. He pronounced Mrs. Langford’s 
case a severe shock by lightning. Again the 
patient yawned, opened her eyes and beheld 


281 


the family physician by her bedside, 

“Oh, Doctor, am I going to die ?’’ 

“No, no, Mrs. Langford, you will be quite 
strong in a few days.” 

“Yes, I know that I am going to die,” she 
wailed. “There is Amanda and a house full of 
people. Oh, I am not fit to die. Save me, doc- 
tor, save me. I cannot die now. Oh, Father 
forgive me; I have sinned! I have sinned! I 
have sinned against everybody! Merle Max- 
well. where is she? Send for her at once. I 
must tell her that I have lied. Oh, beg of her 
to come. I know she is a true Christian char- 
acter, and I have wronged her. And Aunt 
Hester Pearson. Send for her and Mr.Topleitz 
and Brother Havis, and everybody. I have 
slandered them everyone. Oh, will they never 
come?” Miss Ogilvie looked alarmingly at 
Mr. Langford, then the doctor. 

“Send at once,” he commanded. 

And messages that Mrs. Langford was dy- 
ing and to come at once were sent to Merle 
Maxwell, Aunt Hester Pearson, Brother Havis 
and Mr. Topleitz. 

In less than an hour they were at her bed- 
side in utter amazement. 

“Oh, Merle,” she wailed at first sight of the 
one she had so unjustly wronged. "I have 
talked about you; I have lied on you; I have 
wronged you. Forgive me. oh, forgive me 


282 


They think I am losing my reason, but I am 
more rational than ever before. Every word 
I said about Mr. Leroy was an untruth. He has 
never been married. Oh, it is all a lie! I have 
wronged you in the church and out. I cannot 
tell you all I have said and done. But it is all 
clearly before me. Forgive me, oh forgive 
me.” As soon as she could seize an opportu- 
nity Merle Maxwell said in simple words: 

“Mrs. Langford I forgive you fully of every 
deed said or done.” 

Turning to the others Mrs. Langford con- 
tinued: “I have talked about every one of 
you. Forgive me.” Following Merle’s exam- 
ple each of them assured her that she was 
forgiven. 

Miss Ogilvie had sunk into the nearest 
chair and remained there bewildered, until 
she followed Mrs. Langford and the Doctor to 
the door. 

“Is she going to die?” Adam Langford ask- 
ed, frightened almost out of his wits. 

“No, she will be much better now. This is 
better medicine than I could possibly pre- 
scribe.” And the village doctor walked out. 


283 


Chapter XVIII. 


f jTI %ERRIS Leroy sat in his room alone. 
« Gaston Norris' trip to Camden, New 


IS 


\ 


Jersey had proved a successful one. 
The invention was completed and perfected. 
The attorneys had been appointed by Leroy- 
Claims for a patent had been filed. And 
nothing to do but the long waiting of returns 

Leroy took up his hat, walked out to the 
florist’s, and selected a beautiful bouquet of 
fern and pink and white carnations. Then he 
went out to the city necropolis and, with his 
own hands, arranged them on his mother’s 
grave. The sweet flowers of spring time were 
distributing their fragrant perfumes and he 
remembered his mother’s ardent love for the 
beautiful flowers. He thought of their walks 
together in his sister’s flower garden. And 
how she had admired each flower and plant. 
So much was she like Merle Maxwell. 

These memories brought back other mem- 
ories. His intense loneliness weighed heavily 
upon his mind. He consulted his watch. An- 
other hour he had to spare this evening. He 
hesitated a moment; the temptation was too 


284 


great. He had tried hard of late to keep 
away from the home that he had built for 
Merle Maxwell, but this evening something 
impelled him on. And there he went as 
quickly as steps could take him. Beautiful 
indeed was the place in its robe of green with 
cape jasamines budding forth. For countless 
times he walked through the beautiful flow- 
ers, stooping here and there to pluck a weed 
that had dared to make its appearance. To- 
morrow he should send a gardener to care for 
each plant and flower. He plucked a nosegay 
of sweet peas and returned to the place he 
now called home. 

He was met by his light-hearted niece and 
nephew. Idell Worthington, who was no 
longer a baby, but a beautiful girl of ten sum- 
mers, reached out her hand for a sweet pea. 

“Just one. Uncle Derris, and I shall tell 
you something.’’ 

“A sweet kiss thrown in and you may 
have them all,” he teased. 

Idell at once offered her rosy lips for a kiss 
and at the same time reached for the flowers. 
Leroy placed them in her slender white hand. 

“Now, what have you to tell?” he asked. 

“It isn’t so very pleasant. Uncle Derris. 
Perhaps you had rather not hear. 

“Oh, it cannot be so very, very bad Re- 


285 


member your promise,” he reminded her. 

“Uncle Derris, mother is real angry with 
you. I heard her tell Miss Parker that she 
was.” 

“And what offense has your mother charg- 
ed me with this time?” 

“Oh, she wanted you to come home and 
accompany Miss Parker home. Father had to 
go,” she added regretfully. 

“Now, that is not so bad is it? But let us 
go in; the dew is beginning to fall. And the 
children clung to his hands as they went into 
the library. 

“Derris,” said Mrs. Worthington, “I wish to 
talk with you so soon as 1 have taken the ba- 
bies into the nursery.” Do children ever cease 
to be babies to mothers? Mrs. Worthington 
returned to the library and to her brother; 

“My dear brother, why do you not wed 
some sweet dispositioned girl — Eloise Parker 
for instance?” 

“Annibel, 1 do not care for Miss Parker. 
Therefore, I shall not think of asking her to 
become my wife. Love is sacred to me and I 
shall never marry any save the girl tliat I 
know I love.” 

“Oh, Derris, I am so disappointed in you, 
for Eloise is such a dear, sweet girl and — and 
she cares for you. And your life is such a 
lonely one.” 


286 


“I admit, Annibel, that my life is a lonely 
solitary one, and that Miss Parker is very am- 
iable. But I can neither care for her nor be 
more to her than a friend. And, Annibel, I 
wish you would discourage her thoughts of 
me beyond that of a friend.” 

“Just as you wish, Derris, though it was 
not intended for anyone to live a life of lone- 
liness.” 

“For some it was not, Annibel. but it is far 
better for one to live alone than to bring un- 
happiness into two lives by a marriage with- 
out love.” 

Perhaps you have never tried to 
love, Derris. You have always been so en- 
grossed in your work that I wonder sometimes 
that you ever give pleasure a thought.” 

“My work and memories of past days are 
all I have, Annibel. And please do not feel 
disappointed that I cannot think differently of 
Miss Parker.” 

“Of course, dear brother, I am concerned 
in your happiness and hope that ere long you 
meet the one intended for you.” 

“Thank you sister, but that is not very 
probable. I shall now retire to my room.” 

“Good night, brother,” Mrs. Worthington 
called as he closed the door behind him. 

Out in the hall he met Mr. Worthington 


287 


coming in. “Derris, has Mrs. Worthington re- 
tired to her room?” 

"No, she is yet in the library awaiting your 
return." 

"I hurried home, not knowing that you 
would be here. You know that Annibel nev- 
er likes being alone with the servants in an 
evening.” 

“Oh, she has been amusing herself by chid- 
ing me,” Leroy remarked jokingly as he went 
to his room. 

On his desk was a bulk of forgotten mail 
And drawing a chair up, he selected the im- 
portant letters putting the others aside. One 
he viewed critically — a letter from E. L. Lat- 
ney, his old friend whom he had not heard 
from in months. He broke its seal first and 
read the contents, a smile playing over his 
studious face. Latney married and in Jack- 
sonville, Fla., on a honeymoon. He hoped that 
he would ever be happy. And he surely 
should be if his bride was as beautiful and 
worthy as pictured in the message just read. 
He wrote congratulations, marveling who 
would be the next to congratulate, when Wil- 
liams entered with a card announcing Mr- 
Norris’s presence. 

"I will be down presently. Williams. Show 
him in the drawing room.” 


288 


Leroy greeted his friend cordially. “Just 
happened to be passing and dropped in to tell 
yuu of my approaching marriage," said Nor- 
ris. 

“Am glad for you, old boy,” and without 
asking who or where, Leroy congratulated 
him, adding laughingly, “I am in the receiving 
line this afternoon.” 

“How is that," asked Norris. 

“A letter from our old friend Latney, in- 
forming me that he is married and in Jack- 
sonville, Fla., on his honeymoon.” 

“I am glad for him,” assured the elated Mr. 
Norris, “Am in a hurry, will see you again, 
Derris.” 

“But when is your wedding to be, Gaston?’* 

“Early in May," he called back, as he went 
out at the door. 

Ida Harwood had returned home at the 
earnest request of her father. And after 
weeks of careful nursing was regaining her 
usual health. But there was sadness in her 
eyes, and she yearned for work somewhere. 
None of her former girl friends, not even Vera 
Whitworth, seemed to care for her now. Ev- 
erything seemed so different, even more than 
she had anticipated. Her stepmother was 
less kind than before, when her father was 
absent. In his presence she was kind and 
considerate of Ida’s wishes. Would Dr. Whit- 
worth never pronounce her strong enough to 


289 


work? Oh! those unpaid debts staring her in 
the face continually! 

One morning she sat in the drawing room 
weeping bitterly. The last straw of hope had 
been broken. Her life seemed worse than use- 
less. She sat with her head in hands weeping 
convulsively when Dr. Whitworth was usher- 
ed into her presence. She started from the 
room but Dr. Whitworth barred the doorway. 

“Ida, child, it is you with whom I wish to 
speak. Be seated. She made an effort to dry 
her tear stained eyes and sank into her chair. 
The doctor took her hand in his, “Ida, my 
child, this will never do.” 

“Oh, Dr. Whitworth, she cried, “did human 
ever before suffer as I have suffered?” 

“Yes, Ida, many, many, though you have 
never known, but listen, I have tidings for 
you.” 

“What, Dr. Whitworth, tell me quickly!” 

“Ida it is this: Early this morning I had a 
telegram from Popularville requesting me toi 
send the best nurse Mayfield afforded. Will ' 
you go?” 

“Will I go! Yes, gladly, gladly.” 

“You know where the place is, Ida?” 

“Oh, yes, the dearest girl in the world re- 
sides there.” 

“But listen, Ida, first you are to be calm 
and natural. These bursts of tears are not to 


290 


be manifested there. It is a serious case you 
understand?” 

“Yes. yes.” 

“Do you understand nursing perfectly, Ida?” 

“I have my diploma,” — and she rose to go 
for it. 

“That is not necessary, Ida.” 

“When shall I go, doctor?” 

“At once, or as soon as possible. Can you 
be ready for the next train?” 

“Yes. Oh, Dr. Whitworth, how can I thank 
you?” 

“That is all right child. Do not fail to do 
your best.” 

“You may depend on me. Dr. Whitworth.” 

“Now, no more of those unforbidden tears,” 
he said as he patted her shoulder. And she 
ran to her room to make ready, with a smile 
on her tear stained face. The first smile that 
had crossed her lovely face since her return 
to Mayfield. 


291 


Chapter XIX. 






ERLE Maxwell, alone in her room, 
nervously turned the pages of the 
calendar hanging on the wall. Only 


three weeks until her wedding day. For 
nights she had not closed her eyes in sleep. 
She was, as Felecia Langford had said, little 
more than a walking skeleton. The dark cir- 
cles surrounding her soft, brown eyes added to 
their sadness. The roses from her lips and 
cheeks had faded entirely these last few 
weeks. The dark, brown curls hanging loosely 
about her sad face only enhanced its beauty. 
Her slender, girlish form now looked thin and 
wasted. She had never fully believed the 
slanderous rumors against Leroy, but, oh, she 
had permitted doubts to creep into her 
thoughts of him. And now, when it was too 
late, Felecia Langford had confessed and ex- 
plained all. Yet another obstacle: Why had 
he never written or explained concerning 
that unfortunate letter? Perhaps in that, too, 
there has been a mistake. Why, oh why had 


292 




► - • 



Eft ,. .. - ^ 

W' L*’ I 




- 1 ■*»% 








J 




-•, : . ~t^ • '•..* . j^JL; 1 ; . tr C-TiVeT^^'^' 



’ : ■ . •' 

« 'K t'v '>'Star:CV- y. ..,-3- • .... ^ 













- / 



^ Air Jin . ^ X 4 • 

■m iLiMd: ■: '. • / ... .. /- . . , • ' • .' .:vi.. 




“Too late, too late. 


99 






she promised to wed Gaston Norris against her 
wishes. It seemed that some unknown power 
was clutching at her heartstrings. “Too late, 
too late,” she wailed in whispered tones. All 
necessary arrangements were made. Her 
trousseau was completed save one more day’s 
shopping of accessories. The little ivory frame 
containing the likeness of Leroy had not yet 
been removed from its resting place on her 
dressing table. This she had purposed doing 
upon entering her room. Instead she kneeled 
before it with burning tears streaming down 
her pale cheeks. And with arms stretched 
heavenward, she pleaded, “Help us, oh God 
— guard us dear Jesus, and keep us always, 
always.” , 

And thus she was found several moments 
later with eyes rivited unconsciously on the 
little ivory frame. Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell 
placed the unconscious form of their child on 
the bed, and dispatched Mose for the physi- 
cian. In less than thirty minutes he was de- 
livered at the front gate. For an hour the 
kind old physician sat by her bedside. Then, 
after giving careful directions, was followed 
down the stairway by the anxious mother 
and father. They need not ask the question 
on their hearts, for Dr. Kent turned to them 
as he reached the hallway: 

“A fever that needs careful attention.” 


293 


“A nurse, Dr. Kent?” asked the thoughtful 
mother. 

“Better a nurse, Mrs. Maxwell.’’ 

“Wire for the best in Mayfield at once, doc- 
tor,’’ demanded Mr. Maxwell. 

“You may expect the best nurse attaina- 
ble this afternoon. Good morning.’’ 

“Good morning. Doctor.” 

For days and nights Merle Maxwell was 
delirous. The fever came and went, leaving 
her weaker and weaker. At times she lay for 
minutes staring the white capped nurse in the 
face. Again she tossed on her bed for hours, 
mumbling broken sentences about her wed- 
ding or Gaston Norris, but more often calling 
Derris Leroy in piteous tones. Ida had been 
faithful to her charge. Little did she dream 
that she was being conveyed to the home of 
Merle Maxwell until she was ushered into her 
presence. And, oh, she was so glad now that 
she had the opportunity of coming and at- 
tending the bedside of one whom she loved as 
a sister. She bravely suppressed every 
thought, concerning her own unhappy life, 
and devoted each thought to the care of her 
patient. None of the Maxwell household rec- 
ognized her which was all the better for her. 
A few instances she thought Merle recognized 
her. And in her deliriums she called 
incessantly for her. Not a moment had Ida 


294 


been off duty. Although Dr. Kent advised a 
portion of rest each day. Not one dose of 
medicine did she fail to give at the appointed 
hour. 

At length. the crisis came. All night Dr. 
Kent and Ida sat by her bedside ministering in 
every possible way. In the adjoining room 
anxiously awaited the expectant parents, 
with a host of friends and loved ones. Oh! 
those moments of waiting. Scarcely could 
there be found in all the little village a wo- 
man or child who had not called to inquire of 
“Miss Merle,” and to bring some little token of 
love. Even Felecia Langford and Amanda 
Ogilvie. two new made women, came in all 
sincerity. And Aunt Hester Pearson, with 
a nosegay of violets, had walked the full mile 
to see her, afterwards suffering a week with 
her "rheumatiz.” Little Verbenie and Felecia 
Langford, now so happy that their mother 
loved “Miss Merle,” came to offer their respects 
and love, lingering long outside the door for 
permission to see her “just once.’’ 

The critical moment had passed. Merle 
opened her large eyes in wonderment and 
rested them on her faithful nurse. 

“Ida, you here?’. 

“Yes, Merle.” 

“Where are mother, father, and — Gaston? 
Oh, I must see him at once.” 


295 


“Listen, Merle, Gaston Norris has been 
waiting in yonder room since morning to see 
you. You may see him on the morrow if you 
are much better. But you must not talk to- 
night.’’ Ida laid her hand on the pale trem- 
bling lips and soon she fell into a peaceful 
slumber. 

Ida softly closed the door behind Dr. Kent 
as he stepped into the adjoining room. “The 
crisis has passed and Miss Maxwell lives,” he 
announced quietly. And turning to Mrs. Max- 
well who, with tears of thankfulness and grat- 
itude streaming down her sweet face, had 
started from her chair said: “Mrs. Maxwell 
you must retire to your room for rest. This 
has been a trying experience for you. And 
please do not rest any uneasiness, for your 
child has a competent nurse and, if not ex- 
cited, will recover.” And to the waiting 
friends he said, “If you need go, go quietly.” 
Then Dr. Kent went out, for he, too, was 
in need of rest. 

Noislessly Popularville departed lor their 
homes, leaving the Maxwell home wrapped in 
peaceful silence of the early morning hours. 
Madam Murray, as Ida was known to all save 
Merle, resumed her seat to watch her conva- 
lescent patient, She gazed long into Merle’s 


296 


face wishing that it was she who was ill in her 
stead. She should not care to recover. 
Nothing had she while Merle had everything 
— Gaston Norris, and to her that meant every 
thing. 

The morning meal over, Ida went down 
and informed Mr. Norris that one of Merle’s 
first wishes after regaining consciousness was 
that she might see him. She promised him 
that later in the morning he should see her 
for a few moments, “if Merle really cared to 
see him,” she added jestingly. Ida permitted 
Norris to accompany her as far as the bed- 
chamber adjoining Merle’s^ promising to leave 
the door ajar that he might catch her first 
words upon her awakeing. 

Not long had they to wait for Merle stirred, 
opened her soft brown eyes and gazed inquir- 
ingly on the white apron and cap before her. 

“Ida, why are you here? When did you 
come?” 

“I came here to nurse you through your 
illness. Merle, and oh, I am so glad you are bet- 
ter.” 

“Have I been very ill?” 

“Yes, very ill. Merle. But you are so much 
better that you are going to be well again.” 

“But where is he — your husband, Ida?” 

“Mine is a sad story. Merle. Would that I 
had never wedded!” Then, remembering her 


297 


promise to Dr. Whitworth, checked her tears 
and said, “you are not strong enough to hear 
yet.” 

“Oh, yes, it will do me good to hear you 
talk. Go on, Ida.” 

“Promise not to stir and I shall tell you 

all.” 

“I promise Ida.” And Gaston Norris, sit- 
ting within the adjacent room, heard Ida Mur- 
ray pour out her sad story from beginning to 
that present day. Merle lay motionless drink- 
ing in the true words. 

When Ida had finished she cried out: 

"I am sorry, so sorry, Ida! But now hear 
hear my sad story.” 

“Hush” whispered Ida. "Not now, wait un- 
til you are stronger. I should not have bur- 
dened you so soon with my sad experience,” 

“Yes, now, Ida,” Merle pleaded. I must tell 
somebody. Listen, Ida, I shall never recover 
until I have told some one.” Ida sat thought- 
fully for a moment, then consented. Merle 
placed her thin, pale, hands in those of Ida 
Harwood and looked straight into her sad 
face. 

"Ida,” she said, “I cannot marry Gaston 
Norris,” 

“And why not,Merle?” 

“Oh, I do not love him. I have never lov- 


298 


ed him. I cannot, I cannot. “Ida,” she whis- 
pered, “I have asked Jesus to help me. I have 
been pleading all the days that I might be 
spared that wedding day with him. Oh, Ida, 
my whole soul rebels.” 

Gaston Norris had started from his chair 
at the beginning of Merle’s words and now 
stood in the doorway with head bowed low. 
And ere either Madam Murray or Merle were 
aware he stood by the bedside looking into 
the pale face. 

“Merle, why can you never care for me? Is 
there another?” he asked doubtfully. 

“Yes, yes. Oh, Gaston, have you never 
known that I love — him? And Ida, had you 
never guessed?” she cried as she stretched 
forth her hands for the little ivory frame on 
the dressing table, where her mother had ta- 
ken it from her grasp and replaced it the day 
she was taken ill. “Forgive, forgive,” she wail- 
ed and fell back exhausted on her pillow. 

“All too true and plain,” Gaston Norris 
muttered under breath as he beheld the true 
likeness of Derris Leroy. Then, with the cour- 
age of a true man, Norris took the small, 
white hand of Merle Maxwell in his own and 
said: 

“Tis I who should seek forgiveness. I have 
wrought all this upon yoii. My conscience 
has long condemned me.” 

Merle stared blankly for a moment, then 


299 


looked straight into his face and said: 

“Gaston, were my life at stake I could not 
say other than I have said. I cannot force 
myself.” 

“I know,” he said. Forgive me.” He held 
her hand for a brief moment, then quit the 
room, leaving Ida in amazement. 

Later in the day, urged by both Dr. Kent 
and Merle, Ida went out taking her first walk 
since arriving at Popularville. She had chos- 
en the path leading out towards the little vil- 
lage. Unmindful of the beautiful trees nature 
had shaded the path with, she was meditating 
upon the events of the previous morning, 
when joined by Norris. When they had walk- 
ed the length of the shaded path in silence 

and she was turning to retrace her footsteps 
he said: 

“Ida will you marry me after — after this?” 

Ida started in surprise. “Would you wed 
Joe Murray’s widow?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said as he seized both her hands 
in his. 

“But Gaston, my position in life and — and 
those unpaid debts?” 

“Never mind your position in life, and 
those debts — they shall be settled for. After 
all, Ida, four lives will be made happy instead 
of one. Hurry home, girlie,” he called back as 
he started off to make the homeward train. 
Ida, beaming with joy, ran in to impart the 
glad tidings to Merle. 


300 


Chapter XX. 



S soon as Merle was pronounced out 
y 

^ danger Madam Murray pleaded 

leave to return home, leaving 
Mrs. Maxwell as sole nurse over her child. 

Whatever possessed Mose to hitch the 
ponies to the front paling fence? A thing he 
had never before done. No one, not even he, 
knew. The only explanation he had to offer 
Aunt Texanna, who rebuked him soundly, 
was: “He had done hurried to the drug sto’e 
to get that description fuifilled fo’ Miss Merle 
so she’d hurry and git well.” While he was 
yet giving this explanation, Madie ran in at 
the back door excited and breathless. 

“Mose? dem ponies done to’e down a yard 
ob dem palings and de mail box wid it!” 

In less than thirty minutes Mose had the 
ponies in their stalls. And with hammer and 
nails was repairing the demolished fence. 
With trembling hands he replaced the old- 
fashioned mail box and proceeded to secure 
it with tremendous strokes of the hammer up- 
on the heads of the great spikes. What was 
that? Slipping from beneath the sheet of lin- 


301 


ing in the lid of the post box was an old stain- 
ed letter. Mose picked it up. What? Anoth- 
er! And he picked up the second. Then he 
shook the box, vigorously, to make sure theie 
were no more. He viewed the letters, closely. 
The postmarks were entirly effaced. “M-i-s-s 
M e-r-l-e,” he spelled out. And without trying 
to decipher the remainder of the address, he 
ran straight to Texanna with the news. Her 
chubby hands went up in surprise. 

“Gi’e me them letters Mose, and you go 
right on wid yo’ bizziness,” Aunt Texanna 
said as she snatched the soiled, weather stain- 
ed messages from his hand. 

She went immediately up to Merle’s room 
and knocked gently on the door. Mrs. Max- 
well, thinking perhaps it was Dr. Kent, re- 
sponded at once. She was no less surprised 
than the servant had been at the recovery of 
the letters. 

“But not yet, Texanna,’’ Mrs. Maxwell said. 
“You know Dr. Kent said that she must be 
spared all excitement. Leave them in the li- 
brary and perhaps in a few days she can have 
them.” Then she softly closed the door on 
Aunt Texanna, who was sorely disappointed. 
Those were “her baby’s” letters and she was 
so glad, for somehow Aunt Texanna had not 
lost faith in her prayers. “Besides,it was none 


302 


of Dr. Kent’s business,” she mused. She obey- 
ed the command without a word. But, with a 
determined expression on her wrinkled face, 
returned to her work. 

Later, while Mrs. Maxwell was out in the 
kitchen preparing an appetizing stew for her 
ill child, Aunt Texanna slipped two yellow 
letters from the library table into her dress 
bosom. She went cautiously out into the hall 
and up the stairway. Once she immagined 
that footsteps followed her and she pressed 
her hands to her bosom and the secreted let- 
ters. Straight she went to her “baby’s” room 
and entered unceremoniously. Merle started 
at the look of uneasiness written on the old 
servant’s face. Aunt Texanna quieted her 
fears with: 

“Hush, honey, yo’ ole auntie brung yo’ 
something.” With a shaky hand she brought 
forth the letters. “Don’t be scairt, baby, and 
don’t let yo’ ina know ’cause she said Dr. Kent 
wouldn’t like for you to be scairt now.” 

“Be seated. Auntie, and tell me how you 
happened to have those letters in your pos- 
session.” 

The old darky seated herself by the bed- 
side and told Merle the whole story. First, of 
Mose going to the village to have the pre- 
scription filled. Then of his tying the ponies 


303 


to the front fence. And how they had torn 
the palings off the front fence and upset the 
mail box. Of how she had scolded; of the 
finding of the letters and how glad she was 
now that it had all happened. Merle stared 
in silence. Then with trembling hands broke 
the seals of the letters. She happened to 
read Derris Leroy's explanation first, followed 
by that of Gaston Norris. In a moment the 
whole truth flashed upon her. 

“Oh, Auntie, my prayers are being answer- 
ed and I am so happy.” 

“My prayers are being answered too, hon- 
ey. I knowed it would do you good to read 
’em,” old Texanna said, pointing to the letters. 

“Thank you. Auntie, thank you.” 

“Yo’ ma will be cornin’ with the stew soon» 
baby.” And the old servant went down as 
cautiously as she had come. 

Again and again Merle read the letters, 
then the dates again. Oh! it was all so plain 
now. Norris? Could it be the same Norris 
that she had so nearly married? Yes. She 
knew the meaning now of his words when he 
had said that he had wrought all this upon 
her. But where was Derris Leroy now? Was 
he married? Mrs, Maxwell came in with the 
nourishment on a silver serving tray. 

“Oh, mother, do hurry! I think I shall 
starve!” 

“What?” her mother asked in surprise, for 


304 


they had scarcely been able to persuade her 
to touch food. Each passing day found Merle 
improving in health and regaining her usual 
strength. For several days she had been per- 
mitted to sit up at intervals, a few moments 
longer each day. Yes, she had walked down 
to dinner once. And she had been promised 
a short stroll this evening in the garden 
among the beautiful flowers, provided she 
would wear something warm for she was yet 
thin and easily chilled. What should she don? 
She shuddered when her mother mentioned 
one of her new gowns of her trousseau, 

‘The red velvet, mother, is just the thing 
for a cool evening. Besides, I havn’t worn it 
since — for a long time." 

“Your selection is a wise one.” 

After Merle had finished her toilet and 
her mother had placed a mantle about her 
shoulders, she walked out among the flowers 
admiring each in turn. Then turned her foot- 
steps toward the little, old, picket gate and 
stood beneath a giant magnolia, which was 
now white with blossoms. Ah, was she not 
thinking of another evening when she had 
stood here, but not alone? 

She had turned to retrace her steps when 
a voice from behind called gently: 

“Merle, Merle!” 

And in an instant Derris Leroy was by her 


305 


side with both of her hands seized in his. 

“Derris,” Merle whispered and began an 
explanation. 

“I know all, Merle,” said Leroy kindly. 

“Have you seen — did Ida and Gaston tell 
you?” 

“Yes, I have seen Ida and Gaston and I 
know all.” 

“But these?” she asked holding forth the 
two unfortunate envelopes that she had not 
yet suffered to leave her possession. Leroy 
took them in his hands and in the gathering 
twilight scanned their pages. 

“When?” he inquired as the truth began to 
dawn upon him. 

“Just since my illness, Derris.” 

“Let's go in, girlie, the gentle breezes are 
too much for you yet. You are shivering.” 
And Leroy drew her mantle close about her 
shoulders, just as he had done on a previous 
evening. 

“Ida and Gaston,” she whispered, “are 
they—?” 

“Yes, Ida and Gaston were married a week 
since. And oh, they are so happy — Ida at 
least.” 

“I am so glad, glad, glad!” Merle said. 

“Merle,” Leroy said, “it is enough to know 
that we have ever loved and remained true to 


306 


each other, but 1 have a little surprise yet to 
add to our happiness.’’ 

“How can we be happier? But what is it, 
Derris?” 

“To-day I received a patent for an inven- 
tion and sold same for fifty thousand dollars.” 

“What! An invention!” 

“We shall have much to talk about little 
girl,” Leroy whispered as he helped her up the 
steps of her dear old home. 

Two weeks later a wedding day dawned 
bright and beautiful. Evening came on with- 
out the appearance of a cloud to mar the 
beauty of the clear, blue sky. From every 
window of the old home shone a brilliant 
light. Each room within itself was a garden 
of flowers. Down the hall and into the spa- 
cious living room came the bride and bride- 
groom on that lovely Wednesday evening. 
They stood beneath an arch of beautiful roses 
for the month was June — while brother Havis 
pronounced them husband and wife, in the 
presence of half of Popularville. Felecia Lang- 
ford, with her slippered foot^beat the “one and, 
two and, three and, four and.” Amanda Ogil- 
vie and Aunt Hester Pearson, too, with her 
“rheumatiz” were there. Besides these, there 
were: Ida and Gaston Norris, Lucy, Maud, 
Nell, Vera — and even Eloise Parker, at the re- 
quest of Leroy. Mr. Topleitz was first to take 
Merle in his arms and bless her. While Uncle 


307 


Tim and Mrs. Maxwell looked on with tears 
glistening in their eyes, 

A beautiful picture indeed was Merle in 
all white, with a string of tinted pearls encir- 
cling her fair neck and a picture hat o’ershad- 
owing her smiling face, as she threw from the 
stairway her bridal bouquet of cape jasamines 
which fell straight into the arms of Eloise 
Parker. And Mr. Topleitz stood close by. 

Down at the little picket gate stood friends 
and loved ones, wishing Derris Leroy and the 
fair Merle God speed. Merle pushed her way 
through the crowd to Aunt Texanna who 
stood in the rear with a corner of her checked 
apron to her eyes. She placed a kiss on the 
worthy old servant’s brow as she said: 

“Oh ! Auntie, I am so happy!’’ 

“My prayers am answered, baby,” the old 
darkey said, as she tenderly and lovingly em- 
braced the woman that she had nursed from 
babyhood. Then, with love beaming from her 
sweet face, Merle went back to her husband, 
who, tenderly, handed her in the waiting taxi. 

Spring had passed and the month of roses, 
“with sweet thoughts of Him who trod a lone- 
ly path on earth, suffered on the Cross, but 
rose triumphant, and now intercedes for us on 
earth.” had begun. 

The End. 


308 



















r 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


D0De31b44L5 





